


A Sherlockian Proposal

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Days of Sherlock, AU, Animals, Balloons, Birdwatching, Comfort, Cooking, Cuddles, Date Night, Established Relationship, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Gardening, Gifts, Hair, Hidden Talent, Holding Hands, Humor, Kisses, Love, M/M, Makeup, Marriage Proposal, Missing home, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Rainy Days, Romance, Shopping, Sickness, Stargazing, Work, fall - Freeform, not series 4 compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 23,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8068366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: Sherlock makes plans to propose to John. It turns out to be a bit more involved than he expected.





	1. Shopping

**Author's Note:**

> I am late to the game on this, but I saw the 30 Day Challenge prompts created by unremarkableawakening and advertised by AtlinMerrick and decided to give it a go. Obviously I didn't start on Sept. 1, but the plan is to post one chapter for each prompt. I also thought it would be fun to tie all of the prompts together into one coherent story. I hope it's enjoyable!
> 
> Additional tags will be added as chapters are updated.
> 
>  
> 
> **Not Series 4 Compliant**

 

 

John looked up at Sherlock, eyes squinting with suspicion. He sat in his armchair, book open on his lap, finger marking his spot. Sherlock stood in front of him, arm extended with palm up.

“You’re volunteering to do the shopping?”

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily.”

“Yes.”

"The _grocery_ shopping.”

Dramatic eye-roll and heavy sigh. “ _Yes._ Why are you so surprised? Surely during our five years of cohabitation, I managed to do the shopping a few times, yes?”

 John made a show of thinking about it for two seconds, before declaring, “No.”

“Not even once?”

“No.”

Sherlock wiggled his fingers, foot tapping a staccato rhythm on the floor. “First time for everything. Come _on,_ before I die of old age here.”

John lifted an eyebrow. He reached over for the slip of paper resting on the end table and slapped it into Sherlock’s hand. “That’s the whole of it,” John said. “Do not add or subtract from it. And do _not,”_ John glared, “get whole milk rather than 2%. We have to start watching some of our fat intake, we’re not getting any younger.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He stuffed the piece of paper into his Belstaff pocket, then leaned down and placed a quick peck on John’s lips. When he straightened up, John graced him with a beatific smile that took Sherlock’s breath away.

“Thanks, love,” John said, heartfelt and sincere. “If you do this, then I’ll make us a nice dinner tonight. That thing with peas that you like.”

Sherlock grinned. “Excellent. I should be home within the hour.”

“Do you even know where the shops are?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said without heat. He walked out of the flat and shut the door, a small smile gracing his lips. John didn’t have to know that Sherlock had googled the nearest Tesco’s location not an hour ago.

  


* * *

  


Once Sherlock was on the pavement and out of John’s sight, his demeanor promptly switched from ‘laid-back, carefree and content’ to ‘man on a mission.’ His back straightened, his shoulders thrust back and his eyes glittered with manic intensity. In Sherlock’s experience, timing was everything. He had needed a reason to get out of the flat without arousing suspicion, and making a run to the shops had provided the perfect alibi. John didn’t need to know that there was an additional errand - a more important one by far - that he was taking care of as well.

He stroked the small box that was in his left pocket with gloved fingers. It was a dark blue velvet ring box that contained a family heirloom passed on generation to generation for the last 200 years. By rights Mycroft should have inherited it, but he generously handed it off to his younger brother when he realised he himself would have no need of it. By a stroke of incredible luck (the universe is rarely so lazy) Grand-pere’s ring finger had not been much different in size to John’s. A minor adjustment was all that was necessary, and should only take a few days to complete.

The two of them hadn’t discussed the issue, but they had been together now for over two years. Sherlock knew it was time - he could sense these things - but he didn’t think that John would be the one to step up. In Sherlock’s mind, he shouldn’t have to. After all, he had been the one to propose to Mary all those years ago. It was Sherlock’s turn; John deserved nothing less.

Sherlock stopped in front of the jeweler’s. He took a deep breath, heart thumping wildly in his chest. Several minutes later he opened the door and stepped inside, bell chiming his arrival.

The first step had begun.

 

  



	2. Gardening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains just a teensy tiny bit of angst. Internal angst, all of it. Because Sherlock likes to make things hard on himself for no reason.

 

 

“Darling, you can’t propose without giving him flowers! It’s practically obligatory. Red long-stemmed roses would be the most appropriate I think. Either that or - “

“Mummy, _please,”_ Sherlock begged. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow; he wasn’t sure if it was the result of the humid air in the greenhouse where they were working or if it was the topic of conversation. Maybe both. A streak of dirt marred one of his perfect cheekbones as he helped his mother transfer her prize-winning tiger lilies from their current pots to larger ones.

The only reason he was here was because John had insisted on celebrating Mummy’s birthday in person. Something having to do with the significance of turning 75. Sherlock had promptly deleted it. John was currently comfortably ensconced in the plush armchair by the fireplace, sipping single malt whisky and probably making mind-numbing small talk with Father. Sherlock had escaped with his mother into the greenhouse, hoping to calm his jittery nerves by plunging his hands into the comforting grittiness of dark soil and peat.  As a boy he had spent many hours here at Mummy’s side. Gardening had always been able to relax him and quiet his mind.

The familiar atmosphere lulled him into a false sense of security, and he found himself spilling his proposal plans to Mummy.

Or what apparently amounted to his _lack_ thereof.

“Really, Sherlock, you can’t go into something this important and fly by the seat of your pants. It takes careful planning and forethought. It’s not something you do half-cocked. Venue is extremely important, as is the timing - “

“But I _do_ have it planned, Mummy. I’m giving him Grand-pere’s ring - it’s being resized as we speak. I’m doing it at Angelo’s, where we had our first date, on the anniversary of our first case together.” He refused to classify it as the anniversary of when they first met; that would be _sentimental._

Mummy wrinkled her nose. “How utterly pedestrian. Doesn’t John deserve something truly memorable? Pull out all the stops, darling; spare no expense. He’s worth it.”

“Of course he’s _worth_ it. But John’s been married before; I don’t think all of the traditional trappings surrounding the occasion mean very much to him at his point. I want to keep it personal.”

Mummy sniffed. “Perhaps you’re right. You know the man better than I do, after all.”

And yes, Sherlock did know John; arguably better than John knew himself. But now little niggles of doubt started to worm their way in. An unpleasant sensation formed in the pit of his stomach, and his chest tightened. What if he went about this in entirely the wrong way? He would never propose to anybody again; this was his only chance to get it right. What if Mummy was right, and he wasn’t putting as much thought into this as he should? After all he had been through, John deserved every good thing. Wasn’t it Sherlock’s responsibility to make sure he got it?

It had all seemed so simple in his head. Take John out to eat, ask him to marry him, put a ring on his finger after he said yes. Simple and painless. Easy peasy.

But there was always something he missed. Always.

Maybe Sherlock had no business proposing in the first place. It wasn’t really his area, after all. He was not the romantic in this relationship; that was John’s purview. Maybe Sherlock was being presumptuous. John might not even _want_ this. What right did Sherlock have to push his agenda and manipulate him into saying yes when John might have no desire to once again wade into the tricky waters of matrimony?

For the first time, panic gripped him and rendered him immobile. White noise filled his head, and for the life of him his mind couldn’t settle on any one train of thought to focus on. A buzzing filled his ears, and he swayed as he stared into space.

The next thing he knew, he was seated on a wooden bench and a cool glass of water was being pressed into his hand. He blinked, and looked up into the concerned face of his mother.

“Son, I hate to break it to you, but if you’re feeling overwhelmed this early in the game, then you’ve got a long road ahead of you.”

Sherlock managed a weak smile before he tossed back the entire glass in three swallows. Mummy was right. If he was going to survive this, he would need to keep a cool head. Think logically; don’t let emotion cloud his mind or guide his actions. He could approach this the same way he did everything else - rationally and objectively.  

 

Never let your heart rule your head.

 

 _Too late,_ he thought dryly.

  
  
  
  



	3. Gifts

 

 

Mummy’s birthday was a whirlwind of activity. Her three siblings - Aunt Rose, Aunt Claire and Uncle Henry - were all present, as well as five of her ex-colleagues from the university she had retired from. To everyone’s surprise, even Mycroft showed up bearing gifts.

 _Gifts._ Plural.

“Show Off,” Sherlock muttered. John gave him a small nudge, but it was halfhearted at best. He was amused, not annoyed.  

“Sibling rivalry? Again?”

“Still,” Sherlock said. John laughed. Affection bubbled up in Sherlock’s chest and his cheeks grew warm.

“There’s not going to be enough room at the dinner table for all of these people. I don’t know what Mummy was thinking.”

“Probably that she wanted a houseful of people having fun and enjoying the day, rather than be concerned with space and seating arrangements.” John grinned, flushed and happy. Part of that could certainly be attributed to the alcohol he was consuming, but not all. John enjoyed things like this. He enjoyed being around people, talking and laughing and telling jokes. He thrived in this kind of environment, and lately he had had little chance to indulge, due to a recent rash of cases.

This visit was more about making John happy than about celebrating his mother’s birthday.

Suddenly Sherlock felt an overwhelming urge to let the words bubble out of him _right this minute._ He wanted to fall on his knees, take John’s hands in his own and tell him he couldn’t survive another minute without knowing that he would have John by his side always. That whatever it took, whatever happened - John could count on Sherlock to always be there. Always.

But he couldn’t do that. Not in a living room full of mingling guests, the heat of too many bodies and the rising crescendo of voices putting Sherlock's teeth on edge.  And _especially_ not with his brother regarding him from across the room with a knowing smirk.

 

* * *

 

 

Father was a man with an average IQ surrounded by geniuses, but that didn’t stop him from excelling in his chosen field. The man was a brilliant chef. He owned several restaurants, one which had earned a Michelin star. So of course the birthday dinner he whipped up was extravagant, bountiful and eyes-roll-back-in-your-head delicious. Even Sherlock had extra helpings - of everything, including cake. So he found himself in a particularly lethargic state of mind when he strolled out to the backyard for an after dinner smoke. That was the only explanation for why he startled at the unexpected voice at his elbow.

“Still smoking, I see. You won’t be able to get away with that for much longer, you realise.”

Sherlock scowled at his brother, who also held a lit cigarette between his fingers.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because Dr Watson won’t allow it.”

Sherlock scoffed. “John’s never stopped me before.”

Mycroft studied his fingernails. “No, but things are about to change, are they not?”

“How so?”

“You’ve put certain - _plans_ in motion, if I’m not mistaken.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “Spying on me still?”

“I merely observed you entering Ian’s shop. The rest I deduced. Not a difficult leap.”

Sherlock sighed. “I suppose now you’re going to lecture me about how caring is not an advantage, and how I shouldn’t get involved.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “Oh, Sherlock. Both of those things are true. But you’ve _been_ involved ever since you stepped off that roof. Perhaps even long before.”

Sherlock swallowed. He studied the smoldering end of his cigarette for several seconds before replying.

“Yes. This has been coming for a very long time. It’s long overdue, actually. It _will_ be happening, Mycroft, so don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“I would rather walk across barbed wire barefoot. What I was going to say, is that you have my wholehearted approval.”

“I’m not _asking_ for your approval.”

“Nevertheless, you have it. Consider it an early wedding gift.”

“You hate weddings.”

“Yes well… perhaps there was something in the punch.”

“Clearly. Go and have some more.”

Given that this was not a joke between the detective and his blogger, but rather between the Holmes brothers, they didn’t collapse to the ground in the middle of a giggle fit. Instead, they glanced at each other out of the corner of their eyes, and managed a faint quirk of the lips.

Mycroft crushed the butt of his cigarette with the toe of his shoe. “Anything you need, Sherlock, don’t hesitate to ask. John’s part of the family, and we need to make him feel welcome. Just don’t ask me to be your best man.” With that, Mycroft tucked his hands in his pockets and walked towards the house.

Sherlock stilled. “John’s had the wedding, the best man, all of that. He won’t want a second go. We’ll just need witnesses to show up at the appointed time, that’s all.”

Mycroft turned around, an incredulous look on his face. “John may have had the wedding and _all of that,_ but you haven’t.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“More, apparently, than you realise. Not to worry for now. One step at a time, brother mine. First you have to actually convince the man to marry you.”

“That’s the least of my so-called problems,” Sherlock muttered as he watched his brother walk away.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is my favorite Sherlock supporting character, in case you couldn't tell ;)


	4. Interlude: Kisses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little romantic interlude between Sherlock and John, to break up the story a bit. Plus, an excuse to polish my writing of love scenes :D 
> 
> The actual sex, however, takes place offscreen ;)

 

The drive back to London was spent in near total silence. This was not unusual. Sherlock had never been one to make small talk. If there wasn’t a case or an interesting new experiment to engage him, he could be silent for days on end. One of the many things Sherlock appreciated about John was that he didn’t just tolerate his quirks; he accepted and wholeheartedly embraced them. John never made Sherlock feel like a freak.

What  _ was  _ unusual, was that Sherlock mindlessly turned left instead of right at about the halfway point. He would have just kept right on driving, too, if John hadn’t been paying attention and promptly set him straight.

Once they were back on the correct path, John placed a warm hand on his knee and gave a gentle squeeze. “What’s on your mind, love?”

“Thinking.”

John laughed, a bright and delighted sound. “Yeah, I got that. Pretty deep in your mind palace there for someone in the driver’s seat. I can take over for a bit if you like.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m fine.”

John shrugged. He didn’t remove his hand. In fact, his fingers started stroking small circles on Sherlock’s knee. It didn’t tickle. In fact, the sensation sent a spike of pleasure through his nerve endings, causing him to shiver.

John smiled. “Perhaps when we get home, I can give you something that’ll make you forget whatever it is that has you so distracted.”

 

* * *

True to his word, after arriving home and dispensing with coats and luggage, John hustled Sherlock to the sofa. He crawled into his lap, and took Sherlock’s face between his hands. He smiled that blinding smile that he gave only to Sherlock, and all thoughts currently in Sherlock’s head promptly fled the building. Soft blue eyes stared into his own; they twinkled mischievously. Then John leaned in, and whispered, “I’m about to give you the best snog of your life. Is that alright?”

Sherlock swallowed. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he croaked.

John winked, and Sherlock’s brain went completely offline. All thought ceased, and he gave himself over to pure sensation. John was the only one who had been able to do that for him - take him completely out of his head to experience only what was happening in the here and now. He melted into the cushions as John nibbled his lower lip and stroked his cheek. 

“S’nice?” John asked, warm breath puffing over Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock shivered. He bared his neck for optimum access. “Please,” he whispered.

John placed several light, close-mouthed kisses down that long column of alabaster skin, lightly nipping as he went along. John always did like to tease during their lovemaking, taking his time and drawing out the pleasure for as long as Sherlock could stand it. Those were the only times that Sherlock was grateful for John’s extensive prior experience, since he reaped the rewards on a fairly regular basis.

John switched his methods and started up the other side of Sherlock’s neck with open-mouthed kisses, periodically swiping a patch with a bit of tongue. Sherlock shuddered beneath him, hips reflexively thrusting. He clutched at John’s back.

_ “Please,”  _ Sherlock groaned helplessly. 

Ever aiming to please, John finally placed his mouth on Sherlock’s. Soft yet firm, gentle yet demanding, John’s lips massaged Sherlock’s while his tongue flicked in and out of Sherlock’s mouth. One hand tangled in Sherlock’s curls while the other stroked up and down his arm. 

It was the most sensual and erotic kiss to date.

This went on for what seemed a very long time, both men taking and giving in equal measure. Time ceased to exist. Arousal simmered just below the surface, present but not urgent, an ebb and flow that could be maintained for an indefinite amount of time. Endorphins buzzed through Sherlock’s blood, flooding him with a sense of wellbeing. It was the loveliest thing Sherlock had ever experienced.

Then it exploded into his awareness like a burst of white light. It was an obvious fact, but one that had been lingering on the fringes of his subconscious. True and yet unacknowledged, until now - 

_ He was going to have this for the rest of his life. _

He gasped with the realisation, pulling both of them back into reality. Sherlock’s wide eyes locked onto John’s confused ones. For the second time in as many days he had to quell the instinct to blurt out the question in the heat of the moment. 

“I love you,” Sherlock said instead.

John’s eyes softened. He swept a hand through Sherlock’s fringe, then leaned over and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. “Likewise,” he responded.

“Do you think you always will?” Sherlock bit his lip and mentally kicked himself. Where was this need for reassurance coming from? It was completely out of character, and sounded whiny and desperate to his ears.

John laughed, as if the very question was ridiculous. “I’ve loved you since the day we met, Sherlock. I never stopped, not even while you were supposedly dead. What makes you think that’ll ever change?”

Sherlock’s heart stopped. “What?”

“You silly man.” John slipped off Sherlock’s lap, and extended his hand. “Let’s go to a proper bed, and let me re-acquaint you with the fact that you are mine and I am yours. Always have been, always will be.”

 


	5. Work

 

Sherlock couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at his lips. Every time he tried to focus on something else, memories of last night nudged their way into his consciousness, flooding him with warmth and - _happiness_. Not just the activities that transpired once they reached the bedroom, but John’s revelation just before.

_“I’ve loved you since the day we met, Sherlock. I never stopped, not even while you were supposedly dead. What makes you think that’ll ever change?”_

It wasn’t the fact that John loved him _,_ or would continue to do so, that threw him. Sherlock wouldn’t be contemplating marriage if he didn’t know down to his bones that John loved him and was in it for the long haul. What had slipped his notice, and unforgivably so, was that not only had John loved him from the very beginning, but that love had neither flickered nor wavered over the years. Not during Sherlock’s long hiatus. And not, apparently, during his engagement and marriage to Mary.

John had loved him _all that time._

And that was why, while standing in the middle of a crime scene, Sherlock Holmes was grinning like a loon.

He had already solved the case. A child could have done so, for crying out loud. Right now he was only confirming his conclusions by gathering as much data as he could. That way Lestrade couldn’t complain that there wasn’t enough evidence for an arrest, let alone a conviction. So his mind was at least partially free to wander and indulge in -

“Yo, Sherlock! Earth to Sherlock! Come in, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked, and turned his head to the source of the interruption. Lestrade stood a few feet away, arms crossed and an exasperated look on his face.

“Hello, sunshine. You haven’t moved in five minutes. I’ve been calling your name for the past two. And you’ve got a scary look on your face, it’s all - dreamy and shit. Care to share with the rest of the class?”

Sherlock scowled. “I’m not high, Lestrade.”

“Not on drugs, no.” Lestrade narrowed his eyes, considering. Sherlock suddenly felt like a small child who wanted to pull the covers over his head and hide from all prying eyes.

“Aha!” Lestrade clapped his hands together. “It finally happened, didn’t it? John popped the question!”

“I - _what?”_

“I knew it! I knew that rapscallion had something up his sleeve. So how’d he do it, then? Candlelit dinner? String quartet in the background? Did he get down on one knee?”

Sherlock stared at Lestrade as if horns had just sprouted out of his head. “What _are_ you talking about, Garrett? I only hear nonsense coming out of your mouth. Which isn’t unusual, of course, but still…“

“Oh don’t play stupid, boy genius. John asked you to marry him! Why else would you have that frankly terrifying look on your face?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade. Well, no more so than usual, anyway. If we must do this, let’s do so away from here. This is not appropriate subject matter for the workplace.”

Lestrade raised a brow. He glanced around at the dank alley, filled with overflowing bins, bloodsmeared pavement and a very dead body with a knife sticking out of its chest.

“Workplace. Okay, fine. Look, I know you’ve solved it already. Walk me through it so we can go get our man, and then we can talk.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hours later, after an exhilarating chase through the streets of London that ended in a hostage situation resolved by a thrown rock knocking the suspect out cold, Sherlock was finally ensconced in Lestrade’s office. Both of them had their feet up on the desk, sipping bad coffee and munching on pastries.

“So where’s John?”

Sherlock made a face. “He had to work at the clinic today. He’s scheduled for two days a week.”

Lestrade nodded. “So…. spill. What’s going on?”

“This is still the workplace.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Sherlock! I practically live here as well. Just imagine that it’s my flat, and we’re all good.”

“Fine. John didn’t ask me to marry him.”

Lestrade’s face fell. “Oh. But I thought - “

“I’m going to be the one doing the asking.”

Lestrade blinked. “Oh. _Oh.”_ He broke out in a huge grin. “Fantastic! That’s really… something, Sherlock. So how’re you gonna do it? Come on, details!”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t think it would be good if John ends up being the last one to know everything. Do you?”

Lestrade grew somber. “‘Course not. I take it other people know?”

“Not many. Mummy, for one.” Lestrade’s lips twitched, but he immediately sobered upon Sherlock’s glare. “At the very least, Mycroft knows that I’m planning to propose. And Mycroft being Mycroft - “

“He’s probably got everything else figured out. Yeah, that’s a good bet.”

“John’s the sort of person who will want to _share_ the news afterwards, in exhaustive and florid detail I imagine, and I don’t want to deprive him of that by having everyone he would tell already be privy to - “

Lestrade held up a hand. “Got it. Understood.”

“Plus I don’t want anyone spilling the beans.”

“Oi! Mature adults can keep a secret, you realise? But point taken.” Lestrade grew contemplative. His eyes softened as they gazed somewhere over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I proposed to Annie when we were 20 years old. We were still in college, both of us, and poor as church mice. I was working two jobs just to cover rent. I couldn’t afford a ring. Our flat was shit, just a bedsit really.” He laughed. “I picked up some food from McDonald’s and some sparkling grape juice. I set the table with paper plates, and lit two votive candles. When I asked, I presented here with a picture of the ring I was saving for, torn right out of the advertisements.”

“She said yes, obviously,” Sherlock interjected.

“Yeah, she did. We were married for twenty years, most of them good.”

“Then she divorced you for the PE teacher,” Sherlock said flatly.

Lestrade’s smile faded. “Yeah, well….” He cleared his throat. “That won’t happen to you. I let my work take over, become more important than my marriage. The Work for you includes John, and it’s the same for him.”

 

_I’m flattered by your interest, but you should know that I consider myself married to my Work…_

 

Sherlock knew better than anyone that there were no guarantees, especially when it came to matters of the heart. Human behaviour was unpredictable at best and illogical at worst. He scoffed at intuition and gut feelings, relegating them to the domain of ‘wishful thinking’. But Sherlock didn’t need to rely on those things. He had the cold hard facts right in front of him, and past experience to back them up. There was only one conclusion to be drawn.

Lestrade was right, as he frequently was (although Sherlock would never admit it to his face). Sherlock, the Work, and now John were all inextricably bound together. There was no separating any of them from each other.

The only thing left to do was make it official.

In a methodical, Sherlockian fashion, of course.

  


 


	6. Hair

 

 

_Plan of Action: Draft 5_

 

  * _What:   Propose to John_



  

  * _When:   Saturday, Jan. 30. Anniversary of our first case together (Ludicrously named by John as A Study in Pink)._ ** _Note: NOT the anniversary of our first meeting. That would be Jan. 29._**



  

  * _Where:  Angelo’s Italian Eatery and Pizzeria_



  

  * _Why:  To publicly formalize our mutual respect and regard for each other in a fashion that is legally binding and will hold up in any court of law in the event of ~~death~~   ~~illness~~ ~~injury~~_



  

_To establish next of kin in order to prevent Mycroft from ~~sticking his fat nose into~~ _

 

_~~In order that Mycroft, being John’s brother-in-law, will be able to provide certain~~ _

 

_In the event of arrest, I will not be forced to testify against him, and vice versa._

 

  * _How:   ????  Reserve private room? Candles on the table? Present ring while down on one knee? Place ring in the champagne glass? Bury ring in the tiramisu? (Calculate odds of John accidentally swallowing it. If chance is high, calculate likelihood of choking). Hire Wiggins to serenade our table?_



 

Sherlock tugged at his hair in frustration. He glared at the handwritten list in front of him as if it were responsible for all the ills in the world. Well, all of _his_ ills, anyway.

He was going about this ass-backwards, as John would say. He should have had a written plan of action from the very start. This was just sloppy methodology. And because of it, Sherlock felt adrift and at sea. He always had a plan, _always._ It was how he kept things under control, by preparing for every possible outcome and allowing for unexpected deviation. It was how he had survived Moriarty’s final problem. Well. In addition to Molly’s unquestioning assistance and Mycroft’s resources, of course. How could this be more fraught with difficulties than that?

Navigating this maelstrom of emotion and sentiment was proving more perilous than that criminal network ever hoped to be. And more likely to be the death of him as well.

Sherlock threw the piece of paper in the top drawer of his desk and groaned. After heaving a loud, dramatic sigh, he folded his arms on the surface and face-planted into them. Just a quick kip, and his brain would be online again. John wasn’t due home for another hour; he might as well make good use of that time and indulge in the sleep that his flatmate was forever prodding him to get.

 

***

__

Sherlock woke an hour later to gentle fingers carding through his hair and blunt fingernails massaging his scalp. He sighed with pleasure. For a man who eschewed basic maintenance of his transport on a daily basis, he was surprisingly hedonistic in certain ways.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock mumbled into his arms.

John chuckled. “You’re going to start purring like a cat soon.”

“Mmmm.”

“For a man who uses so much product, your hair is sinfully soft. How does that work?”

“A secret I will take to my grave.”

John hummed as he continued stroking Sherlock’s head. “Sounds like a challenge. Guess I’ll have to spend the rest of my life thinking up ways to expose your deep dark secret.”

Something in Sherlock’s chest loosened and flooded his entire being with warmth. Because although he was 99.9987% sure, with a 0.01% margin of error ( _amount that is allowed for in case of miscalculation or change of circumstance_ ), that John would say yes, this was just further confirmation that he was secure in his conclusion.

Because Sherlock was a realist. He may be a gifted scientist, adept at manipulating variables and extrapolating outcomes at a high rate of success. But when it came to predicting human behaviour in general and John’s in particular - let’s just say the results were less than stellar.

Except for one thing. If John Watson said something, it might as well be etched in stone and sworn in a court of law.

And what John had just stated? Well. The words may have been spoken in jest, but Sherlock heard the truth of them just the same.

John gave Sherlock’s curls a final ruffle before declaring, “Alright, Lazybones. Get that gorgeous arse of yours up and I’ll take you out to dinner.”

Sherlock sat up and rolled his shoulders, neck cracking as he worked the kinks out. “Oh? What’s the occasion?”

John huffed. “Can’t a bloke treat his boyfriend to a meal just for the hell of it?”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. No matter how many times that word escaped John’s lips in reference to him, it never failed to send pleasure tingling through his body. He smiled.

“Of course. Any specific place in mind?”

John chattered as Sherlock grabbed his coat and they both headed out the door. Sherlock wouldn’t remember a word of it, because the only thing he could focus on for the next several minutes was that in just a few short weeks, Sherlock would no longer be John’s boyfriend.

"Fiancé" really did have a nice ring to it.

 

 

 

 


	7. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delayed update. For some reason this chapter gave me fits, and it took forever for me to be semi-satisfied with it. Returning to work after a two-week vacation might have had something to do with it ;)
> 
> A thousand milkshakes to besina, who was kind enough to take a red pen to this chapter. It is 100x better because of it. Thank you, m'dear!!

 

 

 

_Philia: love born out of deep friendship, shared interests/goals, a brothers-in-arms camaraderie_

 

Dinner consisted of their usual fare; nothing fancy or out of the ordinary. John was doing exactly as he said he would, nothing more and nothing less: he was merely taking his boyfriend out to eat. Conversation flowed effortlessly as Sherlock explained his latest case, hands gesticulating excitedly while John looked on with rapt attention. Laughter punctuated the conversation at regular intervals, as did spaces of comfortable silence while forks clinked china and food was consumed. Just a typical post-case dinner, which meant lingering over dessert and coffee for longer than was strictly necessarily, moods mellowed by the bottle and a half of wine drunk throughout the course of the meal.

Replete and satisfied, they walked back to Baker Street, elbows bumping and a companionable silence surrounding them.

 

_Eros: romantic and/or sexual love_

 

That night, their lovemaking was tender and unhurried. John peppered Sherlock’s neck with kisses as he methodically unbuttoned Sherlock’s purple shirt. When it was completely undone, John placed his warm palm on Sherlock’s bare chest and held it there, as if Sherlock were some precious thing that needed to be handled with care. Sherlock’s heart thudded beneath the touch, almost as if it were trying to break free of his chest and nestle into John’s caring hand.

After several beats, John gently slid Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. His eyes glistened as he moved his hand across Sherlock’s chest, eliciting a gasp from the detective as he brushed over erect nipples and moved downward, over his stomach until coming to rest on his belt buckle. Only then did he raise his head and lock eyes with Sherlock. Sherlock responded by raising one of his eyebrows, Spock-style.

_Go on, then. What are you waiting for?_

John smirked. He made short work of unfastening the belt and sliding it through the loops, throwing it across the room where it landed in the laundry basket with their dirty clothes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A bit unnecessary, that, don’t you think?”

 _“Sex;_ a bit unnecessary, yes? And yet we continue to do so, week after week.”

Sherlock laughed.

John unzipped Sherlock’s trousers and let them fall to the ground. Sherlock stepped out of them, kicking them to the side. He stood in front of John, clad only in black boxer briefs that hugged him snugly, leaving little to the imagination. John licked his lips. The look in his eyes turned predatory. Before he could make another move, Sherlock said, “You are wearing too much clothing for this endeavour. Let me.”

Sherlock stepped forward, and proceeded to unwrap John layer by layer, setting a pace that allowed the arousal to simmer on low heat for a good long while. When both were completely unclothed, John nudged Sherlock backwards and they both collapsed onto the bed, not a centimeter of space between them.  

Over the course of the next half hour, John brought Sherlock to the brink three times without letting him tip over. Sherlock was about to die from sustained pleasure when his orgasm rolled over him, almost like an afterthought. He came with a gasp and John’s name on his lips. John followed soon after, face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck as he groaned to completion. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, sweaty and sated.

 

_Pragma: love born out of longstanding association, characterised by practical concerns, tolerance and compromise._

 

Sherlock wandered into the living room the next morning, yawning and scratching the back of his neck. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes as his gaze flicked over the area, subconsciously noting the mish mash of possessions sharing space to the point where the boundaries blurred as to what belonged to whom. John sat at his laptop, pecking away at what was presumably online payment of shared bills, since that was what his Friday mornings were normally dedicated to.

John glanced up and caught his eye. “Oh, Sherlock, I’ve been meaning to mention this. I haven’t altered my will since before the divorce, so I decided it was past due. I’m changing it to reflect you as my sole beneficiary. Would you mind having Mycroft take a look at it for me to make sure everything’s in order before I get it notarized?”

Sherlock frowned. “Why? You’re not planning on dying soon, are you?”

John laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course not. I just think it always pays to be prepared, you know? The last thing I want is for Mary to end up with all my stuff by default!”

Sherlock shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, and continued on towards the kettle without giving it a second thought. 

 

_Ludus: a playful, casual, flirtatious kind of love._

 

That afternoon, Sherlock was busy cleaning out his Mind Palace as he lay on the sofa with his eyes closed. He was about two-thirds of the way done when John yanked his shirt up and placed a loud, wet raspberry just above his navel.

Sherlock jerked upright, yelping in protest. John plonked down on his lap, grinning from ear to ear, and started gently poking him in the ribs. Sherlock was extremely ticklish, and within a few seconds he found himself on the floor, trying to contain his laughter while fending off his handsy fianc- partner.

“Stop, stop!” Sherlock gasped. He was in serious danger of losing bladder control if this continued for much longer. John collapsed on top of him, giggling into his neck. After both had finally caught their breath, John sprang up, offering his hand. He pulled Sherlock up, manoeuvred him into the waltz position, and started leading him around the room. He hummed a sprightly tune, most decidedly not a waltz, and yet led in ¾ time.     

John grinned from ear to ear. Clearly he was in a playful and flirtatious mood, and Sherlock had to admit he was enjoying it.

Unobserved by both men, Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway to their flat, hands clapping to the rhythm and eyes sparkling with mirth.

 

  
_Agape: an unconditional, selfless, sacrificing kind of love._

 

Sherlock never considered the time spent between his fall from Bart’s rooftop and John’s wedding to Mary as particularly selfless. Rather, he thought it fairly self-serving. His willingness to take a four-storey plunge and then go into exile for two years stemmed solely from his _un_ willingness to carry on in a world that no longer contained a living, breathing John Watson. And when he offered to be John and Mary’s wedding planner, he did so in order to secure John’s continued goodwill towards him, as well as his forgiveness.

However, John seemed to think that he still owed Sherlock - something. Especially after the Magnussen debacle, John was convinced that he could never repay Sherlock for everything he had been willing to give up for John’s sake. Sherlock, in turn, would respond by pointing out that the very fact that John didn’t just ‘put up’ with Sherlock and all of his peccadilloes, but wholeheartedly embraced them as essential elements of his personality, was all the payment that Sherlock would ever require. It was worth every sacrifice on his part.

 

 

For Sherlock Holmes, John Watson embodied all aspects of the word ‘love’. And as unlikely and improbable as it was, he had come to realize that he did the same for John.

 

The ring that he was on his way to pick up would be the outward symbol for them both.

 

* * *

 

 

_I understand that you’re getting married. Congratulations._

 

Who told you that? -SH

 

_I’ve got mad observational skills, Sherl. Not to mention we’ve got mutual friends._

 

…...

 

_Sherl?_

 

_…..._

 

_Sherlock!_

 

What? -SH

 

_Is it truly for love this time? Or do you have a hidden agenda again? Because if it’s the latter, I’ll come over and literally break every bone in your body._

 

Piss off, Janine. -SH

 

_Answer the question._

 

‘Love’ is too imprecise a word for how I feel about John Watson. -SH

 

Now tell me how you’ve come to the conclusion that marriage is in my future. -SH

 

_That’s for me to know and you to find out ;)_

 

 


	8. Cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Another chapter. The prompt word, 'cuddles', got worked in at the last minute. The last paragraph, to be precise :D I hope you enjoy.

 

 

A day after picking it up, the ring was still burning a hole in his pocket. Sherlock was fit to bursting. It was the only prop he really required. Technically, he was ready. Ready at any time. There was no reason for further delay. He could ask today. Tonight. Before the sun had set he could have the ring on John Watson’s finger. This was a thing that was possible.

How was he to wait another _hour,_ let alone till the end of the month? Even John wouldn’t fail to notice something amiss in his behaviour, given the amount of time they spent in each other’s pockets. Ever since they had become… involved, it had been nearly impossible to keep any kind of secret from his partner. Apparently, Sherlock had obvious ‘tells’ when it came to little white lies.

Case in point: the ‘surprise’ birthday party he tried throwing last year had been an epic fail.

Well, this little act of subterfuge hadn’t involved any lying so far. Just a bit of misdirection and information omission. He _had_ done the actual shopping, after all, on the day he had taken the ring to be resized. 

Sherlock could barely contain himself as he alighted from the taxi. His whole body quivered with badly suppressed energy as he approached the flat. He managed to open and shut the front door without slamming it. Before pounding his way up the stairs, he was brought up short by the sight of John's coat hanging on the coatrack.

Sherlock paused. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no way he could face John right now without giving everything away. All of his half-formed plans would be for naught.

There was nothing for it. Hudders liked to gossip with the best of them, but she could be counted on to keep a secret when it truly mattered. He turned around, walked towards 221A, and knocked on the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Mrs Hudson answered the door with a smile on her face, already mellowed from the use of her ‘evening soothers’. Even though it wasn’t technically evening yet.

“Sherlock! What a nice surprise! Good timing, too. I just took some of those biscuits you like out of the oven, and the kettle's just boiled. Come in, come in!”  

She did a double-take as she closed the door, narrowing her eyes at him. “What’s got you so happy? It’s not another murder, is it?”

Sherlock couldn’t stop the grin from taking over his face. He gripped Mrs Hudson by both shoulders and exclaimed, “Mrs Hudson! I’m getting married!”

Mrs Hudson squealed with excitement. Sherlock glanced up at the ceiling in concern. He put a finger to his lips.

“Shh, quietly!”

“Oh Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson put a hand to her mouth. “I’m just so _excited_ for you! Take off your coat, sit down, and tell me all about it!”

 

Five minutes later, they were sitting at the kitchen table with two steaming cups of tea and a plate of Mrs Hudson’s famous lemon biscuits. She beamed at him, expectant.

“So go on, you must be dying to show me. Where is it?” Her gaze flicked to his hands. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

He frowned. “Wearing what?”

“The ring that John gave you! Does it not fit?”

Sherlock plonked his cup and saucer down with a heavy sigh. “Mrs Hudson. We’re not engaged _yet. I_ am proposing to _John.”_

Mrs Hudson gaped. “ _You’re_ proposing to _him.”_

Sherlock threw up his hands in consternation. “ _Yes._ Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Well… it’s not, really. I just assumed since - “

“Since he’s the romantic? Because he’s done this before?”

“No, because - “

“I realise this isn’t really my area, Mrs Hudson, but I do know one thing for certain. It’s John’s turn now. He’s the one who did the proposing when he got married before, and I just think - I think that he deserves to be the one who is asked, this time.” Sherlock traced the flower pattern on the tablecloth with his finger, eyes lowered and face warm. “That’s all,” he finished in a small voice.

“Oh _sweetheart.”_ To Sherlock’s horror, Mrs Hudson dabbed at her eyes with her apron. “That’s so… so _romantic.”_

Sherlock scowled. “Hardly. It’s just what he deserves, that’s all.”

Mrs Hudson patted his hand. “It’s what you both deserve, dear.” She ducked her head, peering at him. “Is - marriage something the two of you have discussed at all? Even casually?”

“No. But we’ve been together for two years, and all the books I’ve read on the subject seem to suggest that time frame as being optimal. It’s to be a surprise, though. I’ve got it all planned out.”

“Have you now? So you have a ring picked out?”

Sherlock’s face lit up. “Yes! Actually, it’s a family heirloom. Let me show you.” He made to get up, but Mrs Hudson shook her head, stopping him with her outstretched hand.

“Oh no Sherlock. John should be the first one to see it, when you present it to him. He should be the one to show it off to people, if and when he chooses.”

Sherlock sat back down, a thoughtful look on his face. “You’re right. That thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

“You know, Frank never actually proposed to me. We had only been seeing each other for a few weeks when he looked at me over the breakfast table one morning, and said ‘We should get married’. Just like that. No attempt at romance or anything. And a month later, we were.” Mrs Hudson gazed at him warmly. “You’re doing it right, Sherlock. Both of you. Taking your time, getting all your ducks in a row. Being _sure._ That’s more important than some people realise.”

Sherlock swallowed, averting his eyes. “Sometimes I think we took too _much_ time, figuring it out. All that time wasted.”

Mrs Hudson tutted. She reached out and gently took hold of Sherlock’s chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “No time is ever wasted, Sherlock. You’ve had each other’s friendship since the day you met, and it’s only grown stronger since. Just because you haven’t been lovers all that time doesn’t mean you didn’t love each other.”

Sherlock’s face flamed. “Mrs Hudson!”

Mrs Hudson released him and sat back, grinning. “Really, Sherlock, there’s no need to mince words with me. Not after all this time. I do live in the same house, I hear what you two get up to -.”

“Alright, yes, thank you Mrs Hudson! By the way, did you put something in these biscuits? I’m starting to feel a bit … floaty.”

 

***

 

Hours later, when John came downstairs looking for his wayward lover, he found them both on the sofa in front of the telly. They were cuddled together under an afghan, both sound asleep. Sherlock was softly snoring. John pulled out his phone and snapped a picture before gently waking them up and herding Sherlock back upstairs.

 

   

 


	9. Flower Crowns

 

 

“Will you be my witness?”

“Sure. Whatever you need, you know that.” Molly continued peering through the microscope, adjusting the coarse focus knob. “Just let me know the court date and what you need me to say.”

Sherlock sighed, his eyes raised to the heavens as if in supplication to save him from idiots.  “That’s not what I meant. I’m asking if you’ll be my witness for the ceremony.”

Molly jerked her head up, eyes wide. “What - what ceremony?”

Sherlock fiddled with the burette clamp. “Our marriage ceremony, of course. What did you think I meant?”

“Oh!” she squeaked. A hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my!  Did - congratulations? I’m honoured, Sherlock. Thanks for asking.” She gave him a bland smile. “Might be my last chance to be in a wedding, right?”

Sherlock shook his head. ”I just need you to show up at the proper time.”

“It’s to be a civil ceremony, then?”

Sherlock waved his hand. “I assume as much.”

“You  _ assume?  _ What does John say about it?”

“He hasn’t.”

“Right. You’ve just got engaged, you haven’t had time to discuss it.”

“We aren’t engaged yet. We will be, in three weeks time.”

“Oh! So, you deduced when he’s going to ask, then?”

Sherlock was used to this by now, but it didn’t stop a pang of hurt from spiking through him. 

“No. I’m going to ask him.”

Molly giggled, putting him on edge. He frowned at her.

“What?” he snapped, titration momentarily forgotten.

She grinned at him. “It’s just that you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself, that’s all. Proposal, engagement, then wedding. Take one thing at a time, worry about the rest later.”

Sherlock frowned at her. “I’m not  _ worrying  _ about anything. I’m just extrapolating.” He huffed in annoyance. “It’s really not that complicated, Molly. I ask John to marry me; he says yes. Then we get married. No muss, no fuss.”

“Um… okay.” Molly stared off into space, a dreamy look on her face. “It would be fun, though, to dress up properly. In a fancy dress and all. I’ve never been in a wedding before.” She smiled to herself. “I always pictured everyone in flower crowns, with white and pink carnations.”

Sherlock stared at her in horror.  _ “Everyone??” _

Molly spluttered, blushing prettily. “I meant everyone - all the bridesmaids! Not the groomsmen, of course!”

Sherlock muttered, “Definitely not.” Then an image came to him of Mycroft bearing a circlet of roses on his head, and his mouth twitched.

“What if John wants an actual wedding?” Molly asked.

“He won’t. He’s already had one.”

“Well, maybe he’ll want another one! He seems the type. To go all out, I mean. But that can be something you discuss later.”

Sherlock stared at her, contemplating. “You were engaged.”

“Er… yes?”

“To Tom.”

“...Yes?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Tom had been married before. Briefly, it only lasted a couple of years.”

Molly stared at him in shock. “He had been, yes. To his childhood sweetheart. How did you - “

“Both of them had large families, and the wedding reflected that. And yet the two of you were in the middle of planning a huge blow-out until you suddenly called it off. Why do you think he agreed to go through it again?”

“Maybe - maybe because even though it was something he had experienced before, he knew that  _ I  _ hadn’t. And he didn’t want me to miss out?”

Sherlock’s eyes unfocused as his finger stroked his lip.  “Hmm…. yes. Something to consider, at any rate. Need more data.”

“Sherlock?” Molly looked at him with concern.

Sherlock shook himself. “Yes. So… leaving the matter of  _ how  _ we get married for later, do you agree to stand up with me when the time comes?”

Molly beamed. “Of course, Sherlock. It would be my pleasure.”

Sherlock clapped his hands together. “Good! After we’re done here, let’s go for coffee to celebrate. Oh, and Molly?”

“Yes?”

“Inspector Lestrade has had his eye on you for ages. I expect he’ll be calling on you soon.” He winked at her surprised expression. "Don't take yourself out of the running quite yet, Molly Hooper.”

 

 

 


	10. Balloons

 

 

Sherlock Holmes was drunk. Scratch that: Sherlock Holmes was _very_ drunk. The last time he had been this drunk was at John’s stag night. That had been a lovely night. John had touched his knee, told him he didn’t mind, and that he was important to some people. John. Lovely John. Handsome John with the golden hair that shone like a halo when the sun hit it just right. John. His John.

Sherlock giggled into his fist before letting a small belch escape. He giggled again.

Angelo smiled at him indulgently from behind his desk. He and Sherlock were in his office, going over ideas for The Big Night. The restaurant was closed for the evening, and the rest of the staff had left over an hour ago. Most of that time had been spent with Angelo throwing out suggestions that Sherlock invariably shot down. The only things that had been set in stone was the date, time and table. Angelo kept wanting to add specific details that Sherlock thought were frivolous. The good-natured banter went on over several glasses of wine, the effects of which had sneaked up on Sherlock with practically no warning.

“Just think about it, Sherlock. A bouquet of balloons on the table would be quite romantic, with quotes like ‘Marry Me’ and ‘Be Mine Forever’.”

Sherlock hiccuped. “That would - quite spoil the surprise, don’t you think?”

“Well, Billy could bring them out at the appointed time, and not a moment before. Anyway, we can talk more about this another time.” Angelo gently plucked the glass from Sherlock’s hand and set it aside. “I’ll call you a cab.”

“A cab!” Sherlock scoffed, waving his hands in protest. “The flat is just two streets down, I can walk just fine.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Angelo insisted.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock sighed dreamily as he sat in the back of the cab. He closed his eyes, and grinned as images of balloons with John’s silhouette on them floated behind his eyelids. A sudden impulse struck him. He opened his eyes and brought out his phone, pulling up his contact information.

  

 

> John. -SH
> 
>  
> 
> John. -SH

  

  

> My John. -SH

 

  

> Your face would look lovely on a balloon. -SH

 

  

> Floating up into the air, beyond reach of mortal man. -SH

 

  

> Balloon, balloon, balloon. -SH

 

   

> Maybe we should go for a hot air balloon ride on our honeymoon. -SH

 

  

> That’s only if we don’t want to remain in bed the entire time, wrapped around each other whilst naked. -SH

 

  

> That’s assuming you say yes, of course. -SH

 

  

> I think we should get married.  -SH

 

  

> Will you?  Marry me, that is?  -SH

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock woke up to an awful cacophony. He winced as the percussion section in his head beat at the inside of his skull. Sunlight tried to bully its way past his tightly shut eyelids.

“Ow,” he complained, bringing his hands up to cradle his head. “John, could you tell whoever’s knocking on the door to please desist and come back in a few hours? It’s way too early for this.”

John chuckled. He set down the book he had been reading and leaned forward in his chair. He reached out and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “It’s past noon, sleepyhead. And I suspect what you’re hearing is a hangover headache pounding inside your head. Good thing we don’t have a case today.”

Sherlock groaned in misery. “Last thing I remember is getting in a cab and heading to Baker Street. I assume that I made it into the flat okay, and eventually to bed.”

“Yep. You actually made it all the way up the stairs on your own. You took two steps into the flat, pointed at me and said “Balloons!”, before promptly throwing up all over Mrs Hudson’s carpet.”

Sherlock cringed. “Oh. Sorry.”

“You’re lucky she loves you.”

Sherlock smiled. “You love me too.”

John laughed. “Yes, I do. Which is why I’ve been sitting up with you most of the night making sure you don’t choke on your own vomit. Now, I’m sure you don’t want any food just yet, but I’ll make you some tea with honey. Take your time, we have nowhere to be.” John placed a kiss on Sherlock’s temple, gave his curls a final ruffle, and left Sherlock to his recovery.

Sherlock sighed. He rolled onto his back and opened his eyes slowly, acclimating to the sunlight and to the swaying of the room. The sound of revving engines, honking horns and pedestrians calling to each other washed over him as he tried to focus his dulled mind. A faint memory of having sent texts to someone last night made him sit up and reach for his phone. He opened up his ‘sent’ messages.

His jaw dropped in horror when he read the last two.

 

  

> I think we should get married. -SH

 

  

> Will you? Marry me, that is? -SH

 

 

_Oh no._

Panic welled up in his chest. All of his careful attempts at keeping his plans secret from John, his desire to surprise him with something unexpected, had just been destroyed by one night of stupidity. Unless John chalked it up to Sherlock being a maudlin drunk who didn’t really mean any of it.

An incoming text alert pinged. Sherlock scrambled to read it.

 

> **I’m assuming by the number of times you used John’s name, that those texts weren't** **actually meant for me.  -MH**

 

> **Also the fact that you asked me to marry you was a good indicator as well.  -MH**

 

> **Not to worry, brother mine. He remains blissfully unaware of your intentions. -MH**

 

> **For now.  -MH**

  



	11. Cooking

 

 

It was a well kept secret - known only to the people currently residing within the walls of 221 Baker Street, and possibly the British Government - that Sherlock Holmes was an amazing cook. Granted, he rarely demonstrated this skill, but when the mood struck the results were nothing short of spectacular. And although John Watson was a mediocre cook at best, when the two of them teamed up to create a meal together, the finished product was definitely something to write home about.

It was a surprisingly intimate activity. The kitchen wasn’t very large, and when two grown men inhabited it at the same time, they frequently had to squeeze past each other as they moved about during their preparations. Constant rubbing of shoulders and inadvertent nudges were par for the course. More often than not they ended up abandoning the meal in favour of more, ahem, mature activities in the bedroom.

Tonight they were making John’s specialty, that thing with peas. Sherlock stood at the counter, chopping up an onion with rapid, skilful strokes. John was in front of the cooker, stirring various spices into a pot of his special sauce. The aroma wafted past Sherlock’s nose, making his mouth water. He dumped the sliced and diced onions into a bowl, and set them aside as he reached for an orange pepper.

John started whistling a tune he had heard Sherlock composing on his violin. Sherlock cracked a smile. Normally, the sound of a person whistling set his teeth on edge. Too much cheer and happiness. As with most other things, in this respect John was the exception. Sherlock found himself tapping his foot and humming along under his breath. He glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, just in time to see him wiggle his arse in time to the melody. He huffed a laugh out loud. John grinned at him.

They manoeuvred around each other, all smooth movements and practiced steps, almost as if it were choreographed. Both of them knew this dance by heart. Sherlock reached over John’s shoulder for the wine glasses as John ducked under Sherlock’s arm for the salt. Their elbows bumped, and they smiled at each other. They gave each other a brief, soft kiss before moving on with their tasks.

Sherlock was uncorking the wine, back to John, when John asked, “Where do you see yourself in twenty years?”

Sherlock snorted. “Really, John? Are we sixth formers?”

John babysat the frying pan while he periodically added ingredients. The sauce was on the back burner, simmering on low heat.  “I think it’s appropriate to ask ourselves that periodically. There’s always things to look forward to, yeah? Goals to set? Else it’s too easy to get complacent. Get stuck in a rut.”

“Do you think we’re stuck in a rut?”

“No! I just want to make sure we’re on the same page, that’s all. You know what they say about assumptions.”

Sherlock turned around and leaned against the table. He crossed his arms and bit his lip. “Well… I’ve always pictured myself keeping bees. In the country somewhere, outside of London.”

“Really?” John angled his body so that he could see Sherlock while attending to their dinner. “I sort of thought I’d write a book. I imagined myself seated in a study, in a small cottage by the sea.” He frowned. “Whenever I pictured it, though, I was always by myself.” He grinned at Sherlock. “Maybe we can combine the two! I’ll sit at my desk writing, as I look out the window and watch you tend to your hives. You’ll write up your research on the honey bee, of course, and I’ll write a best-selling novel.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That’d be your dream come true, wouldn’t it? To indulge your penchant for hyperbole and ridiculous plot devices full-time, and to get paid for it?”

“Yep,” John replied, grin never faltering despite the implied insult. “And I bet your dream is to write up a monograph on the ways bees have been used to commit crimes throughout the centuries. Not for any recognition, just because it’s never been done before and you’d be the first.”

Sherlock grinned back. “Now there’s an idea. My career in a nutshell, really: the first, the best, the foremost expert in the field.”

Now it was John’s turn to roll his eyes. “Mr Modesty you are not.”

“Nope,” Sherlock agreed.

“You really are an arse, you know that?”

“Definitely. You love it, though. My arse, that is.”

“Your arse is definitely hot.”

Sherlock smirked. “And our dinner will go from hot to burnt unless you refocus your attention on the matter at hand.”

 

* * *

 

 

After Sherlock’s vegetables and John’s peapods were added to the mix, wine was poured and they stood in the kitchen discussing where they saw themselves in five, then ten years time. They put as much detail into their visions as they could think of. Some scenarios were outrageous and brought up just for laughs, while others were more serious and contemplative. Each of them had one thing in common: all of these hypothetical futures were shared. It was always the two of them, against the rest of the world.

Just before their dinner was ready to be served, Sherlock swept John into a one-armed embrace (he still held his wine glass) and gifted him with a sweet kiss. It involved a bit of tongue, and it was a bit prolonged. He savoured the burst of fruity flavour still lingering on John’s lips, and was gratified that John was tasting the same on him.

 _Made for each other,_ he thought.

When Sherlock finally released him, John’s eyes were sparkling with warmth and his smile radiated joy. The feeling that look incited in him lasted throughout their meal and late into the evening.

  


* * *

 

 

John went to bed before Sherlock that night because Sherlock wanted to complete the notes on his latest experiment while it was still fresh in his head. He sat at the table, ostensibly compiling the data while his mind wandered of its own volition.  The evening’s events had been so domestic, and so _easy._ Their interactions were effortless now, after years of tension and missteps. The path had not been so rocky lately; they were finding their way intuitively these days. And for some reason, because Sherlock’s brain never left him alone, a tiny seed of doubt whispered _so why fix what isn’t broken._

Sherlock knew of couples who had been happy for several years, then once they got married everything fell apart. What if Sherlock and John subconsciously started behaving differently towards each other afterwards, unwittingly conforming to accepted standards and developing expectations? Things were flowing along so beautifully right now, what if marriage just threw a wrench into things?

Because although Sherlock was in no way superstitious, he was aware of the statistics and the probabilities. He made it his business to be an expert in human behaviour.  

_Why fix what isn’t broken?_

Suddenly Sherlock felt a need for reassurance. He fled to their bedroom where John was already sound asleep, snoring softly. Sherlock chucked all of his clothes except for his pants, and slid in under the covers.  He gathered his pre-fiancé in his arms and lightly kissed the back of his neck. John melted against Sherlock, humming in his sleep. Sherlock’s arms tightened around him as he Eskimo kissed John’s hair, breathing in the lingering scent of shampoo and sweat. This was what was real - not the naysayers in Sherlock’s head. John was tangible and present and _real._ He wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was Sherlock.

After about fifteen minutes, due to the soporific in his arms, the voices in his head faded away and were replaced by images of a bright and joyful future as Sherlock slipped into REM sleep.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene where Sherlock and John are standing around in the kitchen making conversation was inspired by my own experience with a former boyfriend. We had many deep philosophical discussions in that room, or at least it seemed that way to us! A good memory for me.
> 
> Also, I can totally relate to the whispers of doubt going on in Sherlock's head. I constantly overthink even the simplest of things.


	12. Interlude: AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this chapter is: AU. I chose Victorian!lock. That means that it doesn't fit into the linear narrative of the rest of the fic; however, you'll see that it still connects with the story in its own way ;) 
> 
> Thanks to Ariane_Devere for the use of her _The Abominable Bride_ transcript, found [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/81144.html).
> 
>  
> 
>  **Edit:** I was remiss earlier in thanking besina for looking over this chapter for me. Thank you, dear!

 

 

Holmes smiled at the sight of Watson asleep on the settee. His soft snores broke the silence of the flat in a welcome way. A blanket covered him, discreetly placed there an hour ago. Fire crackled in the hearth, Holmes residing in his armchair next to it with a snifter of brandy in one hand and his pipe in the other. The events of the day were catching up to him as well, but he wasn’t quite ready to retire to his bedroom. Not when he couldn’t take Watson with him.

Watson. Holmes still could hardly believe the direction their lives had taken these past few years. They had both come so far and endured so much. Now they not only led satisfying lives chasing after criminals and healing broken bodies; for the past two years they had also been sharing a bed whenever circumstances allowed. Which wasn’t often enough, but more than Holmes thought he’d ever have. Especially given the current political climate.

His eyes softened as he watched his lover sleep. Watson deserved more, truly, and Holmes wished with all his heart that he could give it to him. Domestic bliss suited him; at least it had during his marriage to Mary. Interspersed with the occasional excitement of a case, of course. And he was a romantic,  that much being obvious from the stories he submitted for publication. He deserved a relationship that didn’t need to be hidden from the general public, not to mention from his friends and family as well.

Yet this was what they had chosen, and Holmes for one was glad of it. Their lives hadn’t changed in any significant way since they had gone down that path. Most things remained as they had always been. Holmes was content, and he knew that Watson was as well.

An outrageous thought occurred to him that made him gasp out loud. It was ridiculous, of course, and he should have pushed it out of his head immediately. But it was no different, really, from other imaginings of the far future that he had indulged in. Who knew what might be possible in another century or two? Maybe even…

 

He would marry Watson in a heartbeat if he could, binding them together before God and the entire world. He would make a sacred and unbreakable vow before witnesses, and he would mean every word.

Holmes set his brandy down and stood up. He walked over to the window overlooking Baker Street, and gazed down at the crowds of people and hansoms jockeying for space. Snow fell against the window and blanketed the ground below. Holmes chewed on his pipe stem, contemplative. He envisioned what it might look like outside this window a hundred years from now, what sights would greet his eyes.

He imagined what it might be like, a Holmesian proposal. It didn’t seem too outlandish anymore, put in the context of his previous conjectures. He fancied that he would be very much at home in such a world, a world where a man could propose to another man without anyone batting an eye.

   
Then again, he’d always known he was a man out of his time.


	13. Animals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stupendous thanks to Aria for looking this chapter over for me!

 

 

Sherlock and Molly had a standing date, every Thursday evening unless Sherlock had a case. Sherlock provided the wine and popcorn; Molly provided the movie of the week. They would watch something that contained some sort of mystery to be solved, and Molly would time how long it took for Sherlock to figure it out. Sherlock’s lack of pop culture knowledge served him well for this, since he came to the ‘case’ untainted, so to speak.

John was aware of this standing date, so Sherlock didn’t even have to lie when he called out “Off to Molly’s.” No further explanation was necessary.

John waved his hand in acknowledgement, distracted by the book he was reading. “I won’t wait up.”

Sherlock flew out the door, eager to be gone. Molly was insisting that he tell her everything about what he was  planning. Perhaps she had some ideas as well.

The clock was ticking, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“I have the perfect idea!” Molly crooned. She sat in her armchair with her feet curled beneath her legs. Her eyes were bright and her face flushed, partly from her excitement for the topic but also helped along by the wine. She was already on her third glass. Sherlock was still nursing his second, and kept refusing top-offs. He decided he needed to be extra vigilant about his alcohol intake, after the close call the other night. The relief he had felt when he realised his drunken texts had gone to Mycroft instead of John had been profound. He couldn’t let something like that happen again. This had to be perfect and unfold according to plan. He couldn’t allow for any further missteps.

“Does John like animals?”

Sherlock frowned. “Er.. animals? I suppose so?”

“Does Mrs Hudson allow pets?”

“Um… I could ask?”

“Well, maybe you can surprise him with a puppy or a kitten, whichever he prefers, and you could attach the engagement ring to its collar. See how long it takes him to notice it while he’s getting acquainted with his new pet.” Molly beamed, proud of herself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, Molly, I already told you that I’m taking him to Angelo’s. The reservations have already been made. The date and place have significance for us, that’s why I chose it.”

"Well, of course,” Molly chirped.  “You can still take him out to dinner. What day is the 30th?”

“Saturday.”

“Okay. I’m guessing John doesn’t work at the clinic that day?” Sherlock nodded. “So you could make an entire day out of it! Plan a few activities that have a personal meaning for the two of you. Then after you get back home for the evening, present him with his new pet that bears his ring around its neck!” Molly clapped her hands, pleased with herself. “I think that would be so romantic. An entire day leading up to the proposal!”

“Your idea… isn’t without its merits, actually.” Curiosity struck him all of a sudden. “How did Tom propose?”

“Oh, we went ring shopping together. It wasn’t a surprise; we talked about it beforehand.”

“I see.” Sherlock’s face clouded for an instant. “Do you… do you think John would prefer that? To discuss it ahead of time?” Maybe Sherlock had made too many decisions on John’s behalf in the past. Perhaps he would appreciate being included in this one, to be equal partners for once.

Molly inhaled sharply, looking what Sherlock would describe as distraught. He frowned. Why would she be upset?

“Oh no, Sherlock, I don’t think so. You and he are on the same page, I’m sure of it; please don’t ruin the surprise for him.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “Oh I see. You wished that’s what Tom would have done. You feel as if you missed out on something because he didn’t go the traditional route.”

Molly tilted her head. She smiled softly. “That might have something to do with it, I suppose. I just think John will appreciate you taking the initiative on arranging something special just for him, unasked. Oh, here’s something I haven’t thought of! Have you talked to John’s parents and gained their blessing?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “How positively _medieval,_ Molly, really. At any rate, both of John’s parents are gone.”

“Oh. Well, I guess you’ll spare yourself some embarrassment then.” She grinned at him.

Sherlock huffed. “You were teasing me, just then.”

“YuP.” She popped the ‘p’, just like he was in the habit of doing.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“I know. So,what do you think? Dog or cat.”

Sherlock sighed, flopping his head back onto the sofa. He stared at the ceiling. “John’s more of a dog person, but I don’t - oh god, I don’t know!” He groaned, tugging at his curls. “There’s too many possibilities to choose from! How am I ever supposed to narrow it down? Every time I think I have it figured out, another idea presents itself that seems just as attractive.” He raised his head and stared at her, eyes pleading. “It has to be perfect, Molly. How am I to know what John would consider the perfect proposal?”

Molly’s eyes softened. “Oh, Sherlock. Don’t you know that it doesn’t matter _how_ it happens? John will be thrilled just by the fact that _you’re asking him to marry you._ You know this, right?”

Sherlock exhaled heavily. “Yes. I know that none of it is necessary, not even the proposal itself. But I _want_ to do this. I want to give him the best that I have to offer, because he deserves nothing less.”

Molly smiled at him tremulously, her eyes shining. Oh god, not _sentiment_ again.

“I think,” she said, almost whispering,“you’ll find that the reverse is true as well.”

  
  
  
  
  



	14. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may or may not have noticed that the previous chapter contained a slight continuity error. Sherlock states that Jan. 30 falls on Sunday, whereas in a previous chapter we were told it is a Saturday. The error has been corrected :)

 

 

_Plan of Action: Draft 7_

 

  * _What:   Ask John to marry me_



  

  * _When:   Saturday, Jan. 30.  Seven o'clock pm (?)_



  

  * _Where:  Angelo’s Italian Eatery and Pizzeria (for dinner). Other activities possible throughout the day._           



 

  * _Why: ~~Because John deserves~~_



_~~Because I want to spend the rest of my life with him and~~_

 

_Because I love him._

 

  

  * _How:   Various scenarios under consideration. Molly's most recent offering: put ring on dog collar and present both dog and ring to John._



 

* * *

Sherlock didn’t care for the constant buzz of anxiety that had been hovering around him for the past few weeks. He had stepped out of his comfort zone several times during that period, and he was nearing his limit. There was only so much emotion he could admit to before he buckled under the strain. Thank goodness he was surrounded by friends who were willing to help share the load and ease his burden.

Friends and _family._

Sherlock clenched his fists and took a deep breath before surrendering and pushing open the doors to the Diogenes Club.

***

“Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaimed in his smarmy, superior voice. He turned to the sideboard and poured himself a generous helping of Southern Comfort. He tipped the decanter in Sherlock’s direction, brow raised in inquiry. Sherlock shook his head.

“No thank you.” He had indulged in quite enough alcohol these past few days. Best to taper off for a bit. He made himself at home by flopping down in the nearest armchair, slumping carelessly.

Mycroft smirked at him over the lip of his tumbler. “Yes, I’m sure you’ll want to keep a clear head and avoid any more…. mishaps, am I right? By the way, I’m flattered that I’m still first on your contact list.”

Sherlock scowled. This was the first time the two of them had spoken since his drunken indiscretion, and Sherlock could feel the heat creeping up his neck and onto his face. He had assumed that they both would ignore it and never mention it; of course that had been too much to ask for.

“I hope that you at least deleted them,” Sherlock said.

“Oh on the contrary! I put them in a special folder marked ‘Things to hold over my little brother’s head and use to manipulate him to do my bidding’.”

“Very funny, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sauntered over to the chair opposite Sherlock and sat down, crossing his legs elegantly, the very picture of genteel smugness.  “Mark this day down in history; this is the first time I can recall that you’ve come here to see me of your own accord. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and swallowed his pride. Determined, he lifted his chin and stated in the most haughty manner he could manage, “I need your help.”

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “You told me that if I needed _anything_  - ”

“I see. This has to do with Dr Watson, then?”

“Of course it has to do with John. Why else do you think I’d come to you?”

“Well, since your days of tracking criminal masterminds seems to be at an end, I suppose that’s the only reason left. Other than wanting to bask in my glorious presence, of course.”

“Mycroft! This is serious.”

Mycroft inclined his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “What can I do for you, brother mine?”

 

And Sherlock proceeded to tell him.


	15. Fall

 

 

The flat was chillier than normal, due to a malfunctioning radiator that spit out warm air periodically but not often enough to keep things comfortable. Sherlock and John were currently ensconced on the sofa, huddled under a duvet and nestled against each other. Empty takeaway cartons sat on the coffee table as the credits for a James Bond movie rolled on the telly. Sherlock’s head rested on John’s shoulder. He fought to keep his eyes open.

John nudged Sherlock gently with a shoulder shrug. “Sleepy?” he asked.

Sherlock blinked up at John. “I suppose I am. I had a busy day.”

John smirked. “Busy, eh? All you did was either stare at your computer screen or lie on the sofa. What were you doing, contemplating the nature of the universe?”

Sherlock scoffed. “What a waste of energy that would be. I was doing important things.”

“Hmm. Alright, if you say so.” John stretched his arm around Sherlock, pulling him close. Sherlock curled into the embrace like a flower turning towards the sun. “I had a thought.”

“Stop the presses,” Sherlock mumbled into John’s chest.

“Hey! I do have a medical degree, you know. Anyway, I was wondering… what would you think of turning the basement flat into a lab for your experiments? Mrs Hudson’s never had any luck renting it out, and she told me she’d give it to us for a song, especially if we’re willing to spend our own money in getting it up to specs.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. He peered up at John through his lashes. “You’ve had this idea for awhile, if you’ve talked to Mrs Hudson about it.”

John shrugged. He carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since my clinic wages became discretionary income. We could dedicate my earnings to that.”

Sherlock blinked. His brain short-circuited for a few seconds before rebooting. He almost laughed out loud with giddy joy.  Once again, he had stumbled across another reason to fall head over heels in love with John Watson. John, who continually surprised him. John, who was so in synch with him that he knew exactly what sort of gesture would impress him the most. Just another example of how perfect they were for each other. 

Sherlock lifted his head and proceeded to snog John to within an inch of his life. When he finally pulled back, he announced to a gobsmacked John, “I fall more in love with you with each passing day, John, and I have no reason to believe that will change anytime soon.”

John flushed. “Well… erm. I feel the same, obviously.” He laughed. “Only I’m really not that altruistic; I benefit from not having to deal with noxious fumes and toxic ingredients cluttering up my living space.”

Sherlock snorted incredulously. John could prevaricate all he wanted, but Sherlock knew the truth - that he held the heart of the most singular man he would ever know.

 

Sherlock could not WAIT to slip that ring on John’s finger.

  
  
  
  



	16. Hidden Talent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter from John's POV ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Two chapters in one day! I don't think anyone will mind :)

 

 

 

The day started out fair, but as it progressed the weather steadily declined until John found himself braving high winds and spitting snow on the way home. A sweet melody greeted him as he shut the door against the harsh elements. He stood at the foot of the stairs and closed his eyes, letting the music wash away the stresses of the day and start the process of warming his body from the inside out.

It was a tune that he didn’t recognise; Sherlock must be composing something new again. A burst of affection swelled in his chest. To be greeted with this, after a long and stressful day, was like returning to a harbour after the storm. Extending the metaphor, it felt like after years of being adrift and lost at sea, John was finally coming home.

 _Home._ Baker Street had become so only through the presence of his family - a chosen family that had become dearer to him than the one he had through accident of birth. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with a feeling of gratitude….towards Sherlock, towards Mrs Hudson...even towards the bullet that had set him on this path so many years ago.

John started up the stairs with a spring in his step. The only thing that could improve his mood was if _Spring_ would actually arrive. He was halfway up when the sound of a second violin joining in made him stop in his tracks. Shockingly, the harmony weaving itself into the melody was even more skilful than the solo had been. Or maybe it only seemed that way because it enhanced the other just that much.

John had never heard Sherlock accompany anybody else before. Any performance Sherlock had ever graced John with had always been a solo act. Who among their acquaintances could hold their own with Sherlock like this? And more to the point, whom would Sherlock allow to do so?

Mycroft? John immediately dismissed that idea as preposterous. He had no trouble believing that Sherlock’s brother was musically talented; what he couldn’t wrap his head around was the image of the two of them cooperating enough to play _together._ He could imagine the sibling rivalry that would rear its ugly head during such an occurrence. Not only were the brothers equally competitive, they were also both controlling to a fault; no way one of them would cede the melody to the other.

John’s mind flipped through several names and dismissed every one for various reasons: Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Angelo, _Janine…_ and others. He shook his head, baffled.

Well, he would soon find out. As quietly as he could, John eased the door to their flat open. He had no wish to disturb the musicians. He took two steps in before halting, dumbstruck at the sight before him.

 

In front of the window stood two figures, falling snow serving as a backdrop. They stood with their backs to John, attention drawn to the sheet music before them. They swayed to the music they were creating, perfectly in sync with rhythm and movement. One was quite obviously Sherlock, and the other….  Was that - was that Bill Wiggins??

John stood transfixed, watching and listening. He might not be a violin player himself, but he knew the movements well enough to tell that it was Sherlock who was playing the harmony. So it had been Wiggins he had initially heard when he arrived home, playing that hauntingly beautiful melody. So perfectly executed that John had mistaken him for Sherlock.

This wasn’t a mentor/protégé sort of situation. The talent Wiggins was displaying had surely taken years to develop. He was matching Sherlock chord for chord. If there were mistakes being made, they were being cleverly absorbed and well hidden.

John huffed in exasperated amusement. Leave it to two drug addicts (recovered, but addicts just the same) to be the most talented musicians John had ever heard _and_ the most skilled chemists to boot. Life truly was unfair.

The piece went on for several more minutes. It was exquisite - in turns romantic, melancholy, longing and exuberant. Their relationship - John and Sherlock’s - in a nutshell. John swallowed past the lump in his throat. He suddenly felt like an intruder in his own home, a voyeur to Sherlock’s most intimate emotions. And yet he harboured no jealousy towards Wiggins. It was most strange, considering his normally possessive attitude towards Sherlock - something he was only just coming to admit had been there even during his marriage to Mary.

 

Or maybe he had just always been protective.

 

When the music finally came to an end, John discreetly cleared his throat and pronounced, “That was amazing.”

Both men startled at his voice. Sherlock whipped around, his eyes widening in surprise.

“John!” he exclaimed, a hint of panic colouring his tone. “I thought you didn’t get out of work until six.”

John’s lips twitched in amusement. “I didn’t. It’s almost seven. Took me a bit longer to get home due to the weather.”

Sherlock frowned, brow creased in an adorable manner. “Oh. I must have lost track of time.”

John grinned, nodding at Wiggins as he divested himself of his jacket. Wiggins inclined his head. “Dr Watson,” he said, shuffling his feet and gripping his violin close to his chest, unsure of his welcome.

“Are you trying to hide some torrid affair from me, Sherlock?” John teased.

Sherlock flushed, eyes darting to Wiggins and back again. “Er…”

John laughed. “I’m joking, Sherlock. Bill, that was fantastic. I didn’t know you played. Is that your composition?”

Wiggins ducked his head, clearly embarrassed. “Oh no, Dr Watson. It’s Shezza’s. ‘E wrote it as a duet, see, and needed a second violin t’ make sure it came out proper an’ all.”

John smiled. “I see.” He glanced at the instrument that Wiggins was clutching so fiercely, and wondered if it had been given to him by Sherlock or if it was something he brought with him from his previous life. It wasn’t an expensive violin, and it bore signs of being well-used, but it also looked well cared for. Cherished, even.

“Billy was accepted into Juilliard,” Sherlock declared, clearly as proud as a father bragging about his son. “Unfortunately, he never got a chance to attend, due to circumstances beyond his control, but he never allowed his skills to become rusty. He used to earn money by busking, then spent that money on drugs. Now I pay him for other tasks, and he spends his money more wisely. Speaking of which, it’s time for him to leave now and accomplish one of those tasks.” He gave Wiggins a pointed look.

Wiggins jerked upright from his slouched position. “O’course,” he agreed, nodding his head vigorously. He threw Sherlock a brief glance. “I’ll ‘spect to hear from you later, Shezza.” He avoided John’s gaze as he exited the flat.

John watched Wiggins leave, then turned back to Sherlock. He cocked his head and studied him, bemused. A flicker of something crossed Sherlock’s face; was it guilt? Odd; he knew without a doubt that Sherlock would never cheat on him. John thought it was more likely embarrassment over being caught out enjoying the company of a former member of his Homeless Network.

“Enjoy yourself this afternoon, did you?” John asked, amused. Sherlock pretended to study his tuning pegs, muttering something under his breath that sounded like, “Ridiculous.”

John laughed. “Okay, keep your secrets; I’m not bothered. I’m sure it’s nothing nefarious.” John grinned. “So are we still on for dinner with Mrs Hudson?”

Relief chased itself across Sherlock’s face for an instant before he schooled his expression to its default setting of indifference. He fiddled with the pegs for a moment before returning the violin to its case. “Yes. Going from the strength of the aroma, I’d say it will be ready in twenty minutes. Best to make our way down there before she bursts in here demanding our presence.”

John smirked. “Yes, how annoying to have a landlady eager to provide us with free sustenance. I’ll just be a tic, let me change out of these clothes and then we can go. Oh, and grab the wine from the fridge, will you?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock replied, distracted.

John hummed, feeling light and content. He turned towards their bedroom, but not before catching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye furtively stashing the sheet music into a folder and throwing it into his desk drawer. Light reflected off metal as Sherlock brought out his key and uncharacteristically locked it.

 

John filed the observation away for further analysis later.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Besina suggested that I choose an unlikely hidden talent of a supporting character. I didn't choose any of her suggestions, but she gets credit all the same :D


	17. Makeup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Makeup as in cosmetics? Nope.
> 
> Make up as in reconcile? Nope.
> 
> How about make up as in prevaricate? Spot on!

 

 

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s this?” 

Sherlock cracked open one eye, and his insides turned to ice. John stood over his supine form, brandishing a wrinkled piece of paper. John squinted at it. “The typeset is pretty faded, but it looks like a receipt from that jeweler down the street. Something being resized?”

Sherlock abruptly sat up, both eyes now wide open. His mind raced to come up with some plausible explanation on the spot. There was nothing for it this time; he was going to have to make up something. If he worded it just right, though, he might be able to avoid an outright lie.

He really was going to have to stop asking John to rummage around in his coat pockets for him. At least he had finally stowed the ring itself in a safe place.

“Oh yes; I had almost forgotten about that. Mycroft’s ring needed to be resized. Ian is an old family friend so I dropped it off there and picked it up when it was done.” 

“Mycroft’s ring? The one he always wears on his right hand?”

“Yes.”

And there it was -- the first untruth Sherlock had told since the beginning of all this. 

If one stretched the truth as far as it would go, the ring meant for John’s finger had indeed once belonged to Mycroft. And it had needed to be resized if its new purpose was to be realised. However, it was not the ring currently adorning his brother’s hand.

“That was awfully accommodating of you. What prompted that spirit of helpfulness?”

“Oh piss off.” Sherlock grimaced in response to John’s grin. He held his hand out, and John dutifully dropped the receipt into Sherlock’s palm. “It was on my way when I went to do the shopping that one day.”

“Aha! I knew there was an ulterior motive for that.”

Sherlock smiled at him enigmatically. “Yes, indeed; you caught me out. Clever you.”

“I’m not nearly as unobservant as you think I am, you know.”

 

_ No, you’re precisely as unobservant as I need you to be,  _ Sherlock thought.  __

 

“Anyway,” John continued, “your phone wasn’t in your pocket. And I’m off out, so you’ll have to get up off your lazy arse and find it yourself.”

“What? Where are you going?”

John sighed in that longsuffering way of his that often left Sherlock feeling confused. “I reminded you just two hours ago, Sherlock. I’m meeting up with Mike for drinks at the pub.”

“Mike?”

John rolled his eyes. “Mike Stamford, yes. The bloke who introduced us, remember?”

Sherlock scowled. “What if I can’t find my phone and I need to get in touch with you?”

John slipped on his jacket and pulled out his own mobile. “Here, I’ll ring you before I leave so we can find it.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “That won’t do any good, I have it set on vibrate.”

John huffed. “Honestly Sherlock, if you really need to get ahold of me, just bother Mrs Hudson and she’ll let you use hers. I’ll be back around ten. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Sherlock replied distractedly as he stared at the receipt in his hand. As soon as the door to the flat clicked shut, he jumped up and made his way to what he had come to refer to in his mind as ‘The Proposal Bolthole’. Hiding in plain sight, as it were.

Sherlock just hoped he had remembered to start locking it prior to John’s burgeoning curiosity.

  
  
  


  
  


 


	18. Holding Hands

 

 

Sherlock had the uneasy feeling that he was missing something. Something that everyone else around him was aware of, except for him. That often happened, when it came to sentiment and emotion. And he hated not knowing. Which was why he had spent most of his life avoiding such distractions. He didn’t like that nagging, persistent feeling that existed just beneath his skin, like an itch that he couldn’t scratch. It was annoying and uncomfortable.

To make matters worse, he was sure it was something _obvious._ Then again, there was nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. Such a thing tended to be overlooked when one was too close to a situation. Missing the forest for the trees, so to speak.

What was he overlooking? He thought he had everything well in hand, thanks to his partners in crime. Surely they would let him know if he was missing something important, wouldn’t they?

 

 

 

> Has it been arranged?  -SH

  

> **As requested.** **-MH**

 

> Preparations are complete? -SH

 

> **They will be, yes. Stop fussing so.  -MH**

 

> And the other thing? -SH

 

> **Yes.  -MH**

 

> Yes what? -SH

 

> **It’s being taken care of, little brother. I’ve got your best man on it.  -MH**

 

Sherlock could practically hear Mycroft’s eyeroll. He was about to text back a scathing response when he received another message.

 

> **Don’t fret, Sherlock. Everything will work out fine. -MH**

 

Sherlock would have been touched if he weren’t so irritated.

 

> You can’t know that for certain. Besides, fine isn’t good enough. Everything has to be perfect.  -SH

 

> **And it will be. I promise. -MH**

 

> **A word of advice, if I may?  -MH**

 

> Just one?  -SH

 

> **It’s all well and good to plan down to the smallest detail. Just don’t forget to allow for flexibility. -MH**

 

> **The best laid plans of mice and men, and all that.  -MH**

 

> **Now if I’m done holding your hand for the day, I need to get back to important business. I’ll be in touch. -MH**

  


Sherlock scowled at his phone. His gut twisted with anxiety. Could he trust his brother to make sure he wasn’t forgetting something crucial? Mycroft was hardly a prodigy himself when it came to emotional intelligence. As far as Sherlock knew, he had never allowed himself to enter a romantic relationship, even as a teen. As often as Mycroft had teased Sherlock about his lack of experience, it wouldn’t surprise Sherlock if his brother had never even kissed another person. Besides their mother, of course.

Sherlock sighed as he tucked his phone back in his pocket. If he was going to survive this, he was going to have to start trusting that the people he had recruited for this knew what they were doing and would have his back. Mycroft was only in charge of logistics; surely Sherlock could trust him to make sure things on his end unfolded smoothly.

He had a number of allies at his disposal, after all, if he chose to use them.

 

 


	19. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Spoilers for _The Princess Bride_

 

 

Sherlock never did care for movies in general, and he still absolutely loathed romantic films in particular, especially if it was rom-com silliness or contained any flavour of fantasy. 

But somehow,  _ The Princess Bride  _ was turning out to be an exception.

Sherlock sat on the sofa with John’s head in his lap as he massaged John’s scalp, a reversal of their usual positions. As scene after scene unfolded on telly, something niggled at the back of Sherlock’s mind and his chest inexplicably tightened. The feeling was both familiar and disconcerting in the extreme. 

On the screen, Miracle Max was asking a mostly-dead Westley what was so important, why should he bring him back to life,  _ What have you got here that’s worth living for? _

And the answer straight from a mostly-dead Westley’s lips:  _ True love. _

Sherlock’s hand stilled in John’s hair as the breath rushed out of his lungs, in much the same way it left Westley’s body with those two words.

This entire movie was telling  _ their story _ , in an uncannily accurate, if not precise, manner. Sherlock’s two year hiatus vs. Westley’s five, while their respective significant others thought them dead. The battle of wits with the Sicilian vs. the one with the cabbie. Sherlock and Westley returning, only to have John and Buttercup prepare to marry another  _ while their true love still lived.  _ Sherlock and Westley both literally dying at the hands of Mary and Prince Humperdink, and both clawing their way back to life in order to save their true love.

So many parallels. Although Sherlock wasn’t sure how John would feel about being compared to  _ Princess Buttercup.  _

Sherlock’s mouth twitched at the thought. An involuntary giggle escaped right at the scene where Westley and Buttercup kissed the kiss that left all other kisses behind.  

“Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock whispered as John twitched beneath him. The final scene between the grandfather and grandson played out and the credits started rolling before John rolled over and regarded Sherlock with soft eyes. 

“Kissing scenes just a tad too ridiculous for you?”

Sherlock blushed. “No, it’s not that. I mean, well, of  _ course  _ they’re ridiculous, in general, I just…” He stuttered to a stop before he could further embarrass himself. 

John smiled. He reached up and stroked Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed with contentment.

John said, “You didn’t interrupt the story with commentary or huffs of disapproval like you usually do -- well, at least not after that admittedly sappy beginning.”

Sherlock snorted. “Sappy indeed.”

“And then pirates were mentioned, and you were suspiciously quiet up until the very end.”

“I was -- thinking.”

“About the parallels between this story and ours?”

Sherock’s eyes flew open, locking with John’s. “You see it too?”

John grinned, eyes twinkling. “That’s why I wanted to watch it with you! I couldn’t believe you had never seen it, since it’s such a classic. And now that we’re -- involved like that, I was eager to see if you saw the same thing I did. God, it started on the very first day too, didn’t it? With the cabbie and the pills? Although now I know why you didn’t catch on to what he was doing; you never saw the movie!”

Sherlock scowled. “Knowledge of pop culture rarely translates into ability to solve a case.”

John smirked. “Except that time, it did.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, dear.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso and buried his nose in his stomach. “Anyway, I figured this would be the only romantic movie you would ever sit through with me. After all, it’s our love story.”

“Even down to the part where we ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after?”

“Especially that part.”

“I see.” Sherlock stroked John’s hair. This was another moment where it would be the  _ perfect _ timing. All Sherlock had to do was open his mouth and say “Would you like to do that as husband and husband? Would you wear my ring as we head off into our happy ending? Do you know that it wouldn’t be an ending, but rather a beginning?”

  
  


But of course, Sherlock didn’t say any of that. The words pressed against his teeth and his lips trembled with the effort to stay closed, but he prevailed.

Less than two weeks…. No time at all, really. He just had to hang on for less than a fortnight, and then it would all be out in the open. No more worrying about inadvertently giving himself away.

It couldn’t come soon enough.

  
  
  
  



	20. Pining

 

 

Sherlock glanced up from the tissue samples he was studying and heaved an internal sigh. Molly sat one bench over, hunched over a microscope.  Lestrade stood a few feet away, nursing a coffee and gazing soulfully at Molly’s back.  

Sherlock had had enough of this mutual pining; it was time to put an end to it. Lestrade wasn’t getting any younger, and Molly was the perfect fit for him. The inspector could make the most hardened criminal tremble in his boots during interrogation, and yet he couldn’t screw up the courage to ask Molly out. It really shouldn’t be that difficult. They already knew each other fairly well. They were more than sometime colleagues; they had a friendship, of a sort.

Perhaps it was precisely that familiarity that was holding him back.  

Sherlock scoffed under his breath. _Sentiment_ . It made people do so many silly things. Or _not_ do them, as the case may be.

At least he was conducting his own courtship ritual in a precise and rational manner.

“Graham,” Sherlock said. Lestrade appeared not to have heard, as he took a sip of his coffee and continued his scrutiny of the object of his desire.

“Graham!”

Lestrade blinked. He exhaled an exasperated breath. He turned to look at Sherlock and was in the process of opening his mouth to most likely say something inane, when Sherlock jerked his head towards the door and raised his eyebrows.

The meaning was clear. _Come join me in the hallway so I can chastise you properly._ Lestrade just rolled his eyes, then tipped his head to indicate _Lead the way, I’ll follow._

As soon as the door was shut behind them, Sherlock whirled around and pinned Lestrade with his trademark Holmesian glare.

Lestrade just stood there and blinked. “What?” he asked. “I wasn’t doing or saying anything. And don’t tell me that I was thinking too loud, because that’s just - “

“I know _exactly_ what you were thinking about, and it’s getting old, Inspector. Excuse after excuse, failing before you even try. No, she’s not too young for you. No, it’s not too soon after her last breakup. Yes, she could do better, but it’s you she wants. You need to get this in hand soon, especially since John will be asking you to stand for him. Molly will be standing for me, and it will be most convenient if all of this tension could be resolved before then.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He gaped at Sherlock in disbelief.  “Wait, what?” he spluttered. “How could you possibly know that John’s going to ask me that? You haven’t even proposed yet, for Christ’s sake! You’re getting way ahead of yourself - “

“Shhh!” Sherlock hissed. “Lower your voice!" He glanced up and down the hallway, relieved to see that nobody familiar was passing by. "My point is that you have nothing to fear regarding Molly. She’ll say yes, guaranteed. Invite her over, make her dinner. I know you can cook. Light some candles, put on some classical music. Two or three more dates in a similar vein, and she’ll be eager to fall into bed with you. I deduce that her preferences, although a shade vanilla, with a little work could turn into highly satisfying - “

“ _Christ,_ Sherlock.” Lestrade clapped a hand over his eyes and shook his head.

Sherlock clicked his mouth shut. He cocked his head and regarded Lestrade thoughtfully. “Not good?” he asked quietly.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and gave Sherlock a rueful smile. “Nah, you were just being you. Have I really been that obvious?”

Sherlock tilted his head back to regard the ceiling tiles. “Both of you have been glaringly so. But only to me, of course.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “People are painfully unobservant.”

Lestrade laughed. “Except when it comes to you and John. Everyone noticed _that_ mutual… pining…” He trailed off as Sherlock pinned him with a look of Death. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry, mate. But… you really think she’ll say yes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. If he allowed himself, he would stomp his foot, just to emphasise his point. John wouldn’t approve of such behaviour, however. So he swallowed the urge and calmed himself.

“Yes of course. You’re already friends, and colleagues of a sort, yes? John and I were the same, and eventually we just sort of … fell into place. The same could happen for you, except you have the opportunity to speed things along by taking appropriate action. But… I do have to warn you.”

Lestrade blinked. “Warn? Warn me about what?”

“Aside from John, Molly is my closest friend.” He loomed over Lestrade, once again using his height to his advantage. Lestrade gulped, and took a step back. “You have my blessing, but only if your intentions are serious. I’ll not have you break her heart and leave me to pick up the pieces. Are we quite clear?”

Lestrade swallowed. “Crystal,” he squeaked.

“Good.” Sherlock straightened, gesturing towards the door. “Shall we return? Before Molly wonders where the hell we got off to and comes looking for us?”

“Su..” Lestrade cleared his throat. “Sure. How long before you have results?”

“About thirty more minutes.”

“Good. Just… hold on a sec.” Lestrade grasped Sherlock’s arm before he could open the door.

Sherlock raised a brow. “Problem?”

“I … you think John will ask _me?_ To stand up for him?”

  


Sherlock just smiled and winked.

  
  
  



	21. Birdwatching

 

If someone had told Sherlock three years ago that one day he would enjoy strolling through the avian section of the London Zoo with his boyfriend, he would have rolled his eyes and let loose with a string of scathing deductions about the state of that person’s own love life. The idea of strolling through the zoo was ridiculous enough without adding an improbable ‘boyfriend’ into the mix. Sherlock Holmes did not _do_ romantic relationships, ever. Unless it was for a case, of course, and even that was only the one time.

But that was exactly what he was currently doing, on this pleasant January day. Out of the blue, John had expressed a desire to check out the Penguin Beach exhibit, and so here they were. There had been freezing rain the night before, and now all of the trees sported glittering branches encased in ice. It really was quite beautiful, like a gallery of living ice sculptures interspersed between the animal displays.

As picturesque as the zoo was proving to be today, nothing could compare to the sight of the man at his side. John’s hands were tucked into his coat pockets and he was wearing the crimson cashmere scarf Sherlock had given him for Christmas. The sun accentuated the golden strands in his hair, making the grey almost unnoticeable. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were red from the cold, his blue eyes crackling with warmth and energy. Despite the lines on his face and his deepening crow’s feet, he exuded both youthful enthusiasm and contentment.

Even mundane activities such as this, that used to leave Sherlock numb with boredom and eventual descent into ennui, took on a rich and interesting flavour due solely to John Watson’s presence.

Sherlock loved him so much it physically hurt. Gratitude threatened to burst out of his chest and reduce him to a sentimental, gibbering mess. He took a mental step back and reined in his wayward emotions before they could further embarrass him.

Then John reached out and took Sherlock’s hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock glanced at John, surprised. Although they had never kept their relationship status a secret, neither of them were prone to public displays of affection, no matter how subtle. John hadn’t even been so with Mary, his own wife. Now that Sherlock thought about it, he could only remember one time that he had seen them kiss, and that was at their wedding when the minister had pronounced them man and wife.

John was not a physically demonstrative person, and Sherlock even less so. The fact that they were now walking casually amongst a crowd of strangers, _holding hands,_ made Sherlock’s heart flip.

John turned his head and gave him a small smile, squeezing his hand as if to ask _Is this okay?_

Sherlock’s mouth curved upward as he tilted his head. _It’s brilliant._

  
  


* * *

  


Later that evening, Sherlock strode into the Diogenes Club with personal business on his mind. He rounded a corner and stopped short when he saw John Watson exit the Stranger’s Room. Sherlock backtracked until he was out of sight and pressed himself against the wall, heart hammering. _What the hell?_

Sherlock risked a peek around the corner. John was walking in the opposite direction, towards the club’s rear entrance. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, then wasted no time in scurrying to the Stranger’s Room. He yanked open the door and slammed it shut behind him. He glared at his brother, who was pouring himself a glass of brandy. Mycroft gazed back with a mild look on his face.

“Sherlock,” he greeted.

“What was John doing here?” Sherlock demanded. “Surely you have no cause these days for kidnapping him and bringing him here for your little ‘discussions’.”

“Naturally not,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “I invited John here to go over preparations for our parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. You have zero interest in these matters, and since John has practically adopted our family as his own, I had a hunch that he would be most eager to help out.” Mycroft said all this while maintaining unflinching eye contact with Sherlock.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion, looking for the lie. “John didn’t mention any such thing to me.”

“An innocent omission, I’m sure. He probably didn’t want to clutter up your hard drive with such mundane trivia.”

Sherlock frowned. “He told me he was meeting up with Lestrade tonight.”

“And so he is. He’s on his way there directly from here.” Mycroft’s eyes widened slightly; his lips twitched up in an amused smirk. “Don’t tell me you think that John and I …” He paused significantly.

“ _What?_ Oh my god… of course not! Don’t be absurd.”

“Then what can I do for you, brother mine?”

“I hope you’re not trying to sabotage my plans.”

Sherlock was pretty sure Mycroft was faking his hurt look. “Really, Sherlock? Nothing would make me happier than seeing John become an official member of our family. You certainly could find no one better to share your life with. Why on earth would I do anything to jeopardise that?”

“Perhaps not jeopardise. But it’s certainly within your character to try and manipulate events to _your_ satisfaction instead of mine. I don’t want things going off script, Mycroft.”

“I think, little brother, that perhaps a few surprises - even unexpected snags - can serve to add a bit of spice to an experience, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Not in this case!”

Mycroft shrugged. “Very well. I’ll cancel the skywriting message then. Shame, because I had a nauseatingly florid wordplay all worked out, one that would appeal to John’s creative sensibilities.”

“I’m serious, Mycroft. Don’t interfere - beyond what I’ve asked you to do, of course.”

“Of course. Now what brings you here unannounced?”

“Something’s been bothering me lately, and I believe I’ve figured it out. I think I’ve underestimated John’s observational skills and his ability to come to the correct conclusion. There have been a few - close calls.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. Dr Watson has learned from the best, after all. Well, the second-best, anyway.”

Sherlock was horrified at the feeling of satisfaction that swelled within him at his brother’s praise. He didn’t need Mycroft’s approval; he was his own person, and a successful one at that. Never mind that Mycroft had been his very first role model, and he had never truly been able to escape his shadow.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He brought out the blue velvet box from his coat pocket and extended it towards his brother. “I need you to keep this safe for me.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “I thought you were going to hide it in plain sight.”

“That usually works, yes, but I don’t want to risk it. Please, just hold onto it until I’m ready to give it to him.”

“Of course.” Mycroft reached out and accepted the ring. “Was there anything else?”

“No, that’s it. And - thank you. For this and - for what you said about John.”

“My pleasure, Sherlock. Enjoy the rest of your evening. The big day is almost here!”

Sherlock nodded. He turned around and walked out the door, mind already going over his plans to make sure everything was on track.

  


As soon as the door shut, Mycroft took out his phone and sent a quick text. A response pinged back in less than a minute. Good. Another potential crisis averted. He sighed as he studied the ring box in his hand.

Many people, not just Sherlock, would be breathing a huge sigh of relief once this business was over and done with.

But then there would be the wedding.

Mycroft blocked that thought off as soon as he could. To each day its own troubles. Tomorrow… or next year… could take care of itself.

  
  
  
  
  



	22. Rainy Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so. Apparently this chapter insisted on bringing some angst into our fluffy proposal story. I did not plan it; it just sort of happened. Never fear, though; everything works out just fine.

 

 

Sherlock inhaled deeply. He tried to hold the smoke in for longer than a few seconds, but his lung capacity had sharply declined in recent years. The burning sensation forced him to exhale the poison in a series of sharp coughs. An acrid taste flooded his mouth, reminiscent of ash and grime.

Well, _that_ had been completely unsatisfying.

He lifted his head and closed his eyes, relishing the feel of the falling rain. The temperature had risen just enough that the falling drops remained unfrozen, although still bracing in their chilliness. It felt like a cleansing, of sorts.  

He hadn’t resorted to his rooftop bolthole since before John had moved back in, over three years ago. Now, though, he needed to escape the feeling of four walls closing in, while at the same time basking in the comforting familiarity of home. Standing five stories above Baker Street, the dark and wind and cold pressing at him from all sides as he surveyed the hustle and bustle that was Central London, he never failed to find relief for his frayed nerves and the clarity of thought that often eluded him.

 

He had almost lost John today.

 

It retrospect, it hadn’t really been that different from any other close call that they both brushed up against on a regular basis in the course of their work. Only this time, Sherlock had been distracted and John had nearly paid for it with his life.

It had been raining the entire day, alternating between torrential downpours and intermittent drizzling. The ice that had lingered from the previous day started to melt under the onslaught, making the pavement that much more treacherous and not really conducive to a foot chase across London. But the criminal had busted loose when Lestrade tried to arrest him, and off they were, the three of them hurtling after danger and high on adrenaline.

While Sherlock had been daydreaming about John’s reaction to his proposal, he had missed the accomplice darting out from behind a skip and slashing at John with a knife. Thank god Lestrade had been there to tackle him to the ground before he could do more than nick John’s throat, just millimeters from his carotid artery.

There had still been a fair amount of blood, though, and that more than anything had shocked Sherlock out of his fantasy. There had been a trip to A&E, Sherlock shaking the entire way even though it was John who was injured. Having bullied his way into the ambulance by claiming to be John’s husband, Sherlock couldn’t stop touching him during the trip. John, with his soft eyes and quiet presence, gave him a knowing look that quieted his panic in the most miraculous of ways.

Once they got home, John hadn’t complained when Sherlock grabbed his pack of cigarettes from his slipper and headed up the stairs to escape to the roof. Sherlock appreciated the fact that John knew when to let things go, when to push and when to let Sherlock do what he needed to do. And right now, he needed space and nicotine to work through his roiling emotions.

He also appreciated that John didn’t warn him about the threat to his health by standing out in the cold rain. They had been running around in this weather all day long; Sherlock was already wet from head to toe. Surely another few minutes wouldn’t make a lick of difference.

As soon as the thought occurred, Sherlock felt a tickle in the back of his throat. Fantastic. If he actually did get sick John would never let him hear the end of it.

He stubbed the dying butt of his cigarette into the pot of sand set there for that purpose. Mrs Hudson was nothing if not fastidious. He swung himself down onto the fire escape and re-entered the flat via John’s old room.

He knew he was dripping over everything, but it was just water. He wasn’t too concerned.

  
  


He lingered longer than usual in the shower, contemplating his stupidity. How could he have let his mind wander in such a spectacular way? Making up scenarios in his head, imagining myriad variations of John’s reaction based on statistical probabilities given previous experience and available data, spending an inordinate amount of time and energy fine-tuning his strategy - what was the point of it all if Sherlock was just going to get John killed before any of it had a chance to come to fruition? What if John had died today?

He never would have known that Sherlock was planning on making a second vow, something he had sworn never to do.

Sherlock blinked the moisture out of his eyes as he stepped out of the shower thirty minutes later, skin red from the punishing onslaught of scalding water. He dried himself off and wrapped a towel around his waist before turning to the mirror and wiping off the condensation. He leaned forward, hands braced on either side of the sink, and studied his reflection.

 _Just do it, Holmes,_ he thought to himself. _What is it that you’re actually trying to accomplish here? Is it really so important to stick to a rigid schedule, as if your well-crafted plans were the point of it all? Ask him. Do it now._

Sherlock straightened his posture. He nodded at his reflection, and stepped out of the bathroom into their bedroom - to face the music, so to speak.

John sat on their bed, already clad in pyjama bottoms and vest. He sported a large gauze padding on his neck and a vivid bruise on his forehead. There was an unreadable expression on his face, which unnerved Sherlock. John was usually so very easy to read. That was the most comforting thing about him; Sherlock never had to guess what he was thinking or feeling. It was all there for him to see, in bold size 30 font.

Not this time. He wasn’t showing signs of either anger or disappointment, though, so that was something.

Sherlock swallowed. Uncertainty niggled at him, his previous resolve dissipating like a magician’s puff of smoke. He lifted his chin and declared with all the authority one could muster whilst bare-chested and clad in only a towel, “We will be taking no more cases for the next eight days.”

John blinked. “Okay. That time frame is oddly specific.”

“Yes.” Sherlock turned to his chest of drawers and opened the bottom one, pulling out tracksuit bottoms and a ratty t-shirt.

“May I ask why - “

“Not really.” Sherlock dropped the towel around his waist and donned his sleepwear, keeping his back to John.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, opened them again and turned around. He spoke with a rapid-fire delivery.

“I was unforgivably distracted earlier today, which resulted in you almost being _killed._ While I realise that this is a risk inherent in our line of work, it can’t happen as a result of my - _negligence._ I must ensure that there is no risk of me failing like that again, and eight days is the minimum amount of time I estimate that will be required.”

John clenched his jaw. “I know how to look out for myself, Sherlock.”

“Clearly, you don’t! If it hadn’t been for Lestrade, you could very well be lying on a slab at the morgue right now!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a long, drawn-out breath. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t want to fight. We’ve both had a long, very rough day. I don’t know about you, but all I want to do is sleep for ten hours. It’s fine; we might not have any interesting cases pop up during that time anyway. Just - can we go to bed and forget this day ever happened?”

 _Never,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

“Fine,” he agreed.

John tilted his head. He took a breath and seemed about to say something, but instead he pursed his lips and brought his fingers up to tap on them. He appeared lost in thought for a few seconds before giving Sherlock a tentative smile and extending his hand palm up. “Come on, then. It’s past my bedtime, and you need sleep as well.”

Sherlock grasped John’s hand and let himself be maneuvered under the covers and bundled into his partner’s arms. Two hours passed before he closed his eyes and allowed himself to let go of all his worries and concerns. Just as he was about to sink into the embrace of oblivion, he reflexively cleared his throat as another tickle irritated it. This time a slight ache lingered. The sensation lasted for only thirty seconds or so, but Sherlock knew what that portended.

He quietly groaned into his pillow. Mycroft’s words came back to haunt him. 

 

_The best laid plans of mice and men, and all that._

  
  
  
  
  



	23. Stargazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not completely satisfied with this chapter, but if I don't post it now I never will.
> 
> Thanks to the folks in AD for help with this chapter, especially the lovely interrosand. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

All of the turmoil from the previous day had taken both a physical and emotional toll on the detective and his blogger, so they were taking it easy with a day in at Baker Street. It was past noon before they both blearily stumbled from the bedroom into the kitchen, intent on coffee at the strongest strength possible.

Mrs Hudson had somehow anticipated their need to be coddled and tended to today. Her timing was, as always, impeccable. A full pot of freshly brewed coffee was waiting for them, the aroma both tantalising and mouth watering.  A plate of her signature homemade raspberry scones sat on the table, along with an ice-cold pitcher of orange juice set next to two glass tumblers. The smell of frying bacon, onions and eggs wafted from downstairs despite the door to the flat being shut.

“She’s making omelettes, bless her heart,” Sherlock declared as he plopped down in the nearest kitchen chair, coffee in hand. He grabbed a scone and stuffed one in his mouth. An ecstatic look came over his face; he closed his eyes and groaned with pleasure.

“With onions, tomatoes, peppers and cheese,” John agreed while he poured a cup for himself. “My favourite.”

“And the scones are *my* favourite,” Sherlock replied around a mouthful of pastry. “Apparently we require pampering today. Mrs Hudson is quite perceptive.”

“And clairvoyant, it would seem. Perfect timing and all.”

“Or she’s just more observant than you give her credit for.”

John shrugged. “Whatever she is, add ‘appreciated’ to the list. The woman’s a saint. We need to do something special for her sometime.  Maybe send her and her sister on a cruise somewhere. Bet she’d like that.”

“Perhaps for her birthday,” Sherlock agreed. “How’s your wound?”

John reflexively touched his neck. “Dressing needs to be changed soon. I’ll do that after breakfast. Mild pain, just a minor irritation really. It’ll heal up in no time.”

Sherlock grunted in satisfaction. John had had far more serious wounds, several times over, but never as a direct consequence of Sherlock’s failure. Sherlock was going to have to keep himself occupied with less risky endeavours until The Big Day - the source of his distraction - had come and gone. This wouldn’t be difficult. He hadn’t mentioned it to John, but Sherlock had several cases backlogged in his ‘Promising’ folder that required no legwork at all and could probably be solved within a few hours from the comfort of their flat. He could also request cold cases if he got desperate enough. And of course, some time needed to be spent (away from John’s prying eyes) making sure things were on track for next Saturday. Sherlock was to text Angelo later that afternoon to finalise arrangements for the restaurant.

Funnily enough, he trusted Angelo’s part in the proceedings to go off without a hitch, whereas he had his suspicions regarding Mycroft. Sherlock frowned as he thought back to Mycroft’s explanation of John’s presence at the Diogenes Club the other day. There was something off about that entire scenario.  He felt like his brother had something up his sleeve that he was deliberately keeping from him, and Sherlock didn’t like that one bit.

He didn’t like not knowing.

“Whoo hoo! Could one of you boys open the door for me, please?”

“Be right there, Mrs Hudson!” John shouted. He set his coffee down on the counter, whispering to Sherlock as he walked by, “Good thing I put my dressing gown on before coming out here.”

Sherlock said to John’s retreating back, “I’m fairly certain Mrs Hudson wouldn’t faint dead away at the sight of a strapping young specimen such as yourself in pj’s and vest.”

John threw back over his shoulder, “Not so young anymore.”

Sherlock muttered, “But still a fine specimen.”

 

“Good morning, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson announced. She waltzed into the kitchen carrying a tray laden with two plates of bacon, cheese and veggie omelettes, and buttered toast. Sherlock, of course, continued sitting and sipping his coffee while John transferred the plates, flatware and serviettes to the table. John glared at him as he dropped Sherlock’s plate in front of him with a clatter. Sherlock just smiled at him over the rim of his cup.

“Mrs H, you have outdone yourself,” John said. He collapsed into the chair across from Sherlock and dug in with gusto. “You really needn’t have gone to so much trouble on our account.”

“Nonsense. I have no children of my own to spoil, so you’ll do just as well.” Mrs Hudson tucked the tray under her arm and stepped back. She clasped her hands together and beamed at the two of them. “You two. So domestic! I hope I have many years of this kind of thing to look forward to.”

“I’m sure you will, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock remarked quickly, throwing a pointed look at her. He didn’t think she would give anything away, but one couldn’t be too careful. She cocked an eyebrow at him, eyes twinkling.

“If Sherlock can stand to have me around for that long, Mrs Hudson, then I’m certainly not going anywhere.” John looked over at Sherlock, his eyes gone soft and affectionate. Sherlock tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat - only to meet unexpected resistance in the form of a sharp pain. He winced as his attempt turned into a wet cough.

John made a face. “Great. Won’t say I told you so. Hope you don’t pass whatever that sounds like on to me.”

Sherlock reached for his glass of orange juice. “Nipping it in the bud right now, with all of this vitamin C.”

  
  


But nipping it in the bud didn’t seem to work. As the afternoon wore on, Sherlock’s sore throat lingered and his coughs became more frequent. By the time evening rolled around he could feel some congestion settling into his upper respiratory passages, and fatigue settled over him like a shroud. John threw him increasingly concerned looks, although to his credit he refrained from any further admonishments.

While John seemed to be recovering and benefiting from this ‘day in’, Sherlock’s body was headed in the opposite direction.

Thankfully he wasn’t exhibiting flu-like symptoms and didn’t seem in any danger of developing a fever.

Not yet, at least.

  


Midnight found Sherlock and John facing each other in their respective chairs, the glow from the flames in the fireplace dancing over their faces. John had nodded off in the middle of his novel, which was now face down in his lap. His soft snores punctuated the quiet stillness of the flat. The two of them were suspended in a bubble untouched by the outside world; the moment might have lasted forever, or no time at all.

Sherlock sat with fingers steepled in front of his face, gazing at the fixed point in his changing age. The one constant in his life. His North Star.

Sherlock had deleted astronomy from his hard drive ages ago, but this was one instance when he didn’t mind indulging in a bit of stargazing.

 

 

 

 


	24. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delayed update. I was travelling out of state for the holidays, and didn't have opportunity for much writing time. And then the new episodes aired xD.
> 
> Anyway, we should be back on schedule. Enjoy.

 

 

Sherlock woke himself up at 3 a.m. coughing up a lung. His head hurt and his nose was so clogged up that he could barely breathe. He flopped a hand out to open the top drawer of the bedside table, blindly digging through the detritus to find one clean tissue.  Why did failure of the body have to be so _messy?_

Sherlock blew his nose three times before he felt like he could take an actual breath of air. He threw the soiled tissue on the table and sank back into his pillow with a groan. There was no movement from the other side of the bed; curious, he reached his hand out, only to meet cold sheets and unoccupied space.

“I’m here,” a soft voice announced from a dark corner of the room.  Sherlock squinted into the gloom, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Sure enough, a John-shaped silhouette sat silently in the arm chair. He had a book open in his lap with his phone providing scant illumination.

“I kept you up,” Sherlock croaked, his nasal passages thick with congestion.

“It’s alright,” John said mildly.

“You should have used the upstairs bedroom.”

“I wanted to stay close and make sure you didn’t get any sicker. It’s fine, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed. “I’m not _sick._ I’m just a little under the weather, that’s all. A little cold won’t keep me down for very long, if at all.”

“Sherlock. You were tossing and turning constantly, coughing almost continuously, and your skin felt warmer than normal. You’re definitely coming down with something. Not such a bad idea now, was it, deciding on no cases for a few days? Maybe you’re clairvoyant.”

“But - no, I can’t get sick. It’ll ruin everything!” Sherlock couldn’t stop his voice from rising in pitch as anxiety gripped him.

John cocked his head. “Ruin what? You’ve planned to have nothing on for awhile. Maybe take some time to rest up a bit, catch up on some reading. Consider it a bit of a holiday from all of the frantic running around, yeah?”

“I can’t - where’s my phone?”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”

Sherlock froze. He was well acquainted with that tone of voice. It was John’s “Captain Watson” voice. Sometimes it went straight to his groin. Other times, like now - not so much.

John stood up and stalked over to the foot of the bed. He moved like a panther. In other circumstances Sherlock would have found it extremely sexy. “You will not be calling anyone at three in the morning. Whatever’s so urgent can wait at least until tomorrow afternoon. Well. Later today.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, only to be sidelined by another coughing fit. When he was done, both his chest and throat ached with the effort. He closed his eyes in exhaustion.

John said dryly, “Right. I’ll go bring you a decongestant, some cough syrup and a full box of tissues.” His voice softened as he continued, “If you’re up for it I’ll make you some tea with honey.”

Sherlock nodded miserably. “Yes. To all of it. Please.”

Sherlock heard the rustling of clothing, then felt a kiss being pressed on his forehead. Warm fingers ran through his hair, then down the side of his face. Sherlock turned his head into a cupped hand and placed a kiss on the palm before sinking back into temporary oblivion.

 

* * *

 

**12 hours later**

 

Sherlock came awake slowly to the afternoon sun shining in his eyes. He was curled up in his chair, underneath one of Mrs Hudson’s homemade afghans. A beige dressing gown and tartan slippers in addition to his normal sleepwear completed his look for the day. Everything was hazy since the early hours of the morning when John had brought him medication and honeyed tea. He couldn’t remember anything much beyond that.

Chills wracked his body, at the same time that a furnace seemed to be banked just underneath the surface of his skin. An tickling sensation in his nostrils warned him before he let loose with three sneezes in a row. At least the decongestant seemed to be working, loosening up his clogged airways. Although he suspected he had been sleeping for the better part of the day, he felt a bone deep weariness overlaying everything else. Already he could barely keep his eyes open.

In the background, a familiar low droning kept him anchored to consciousness. It was a comforting sound, wrapping him in a feeling of safety and security. No matter how miserable he was feeling, he knew that he could count on that anchor to keep him from fading away into nothingness.

The murmuring got steadily louder and clearer; John must be heading from the kitchen to check on him. He was obviously on the phone with someone, but Sherlock was in no state to deduce who, at least not until he could make out more of his words. All sound seemed to be wrapped in cotton, muted and fuzzy.

“Yes… still in motion… may need to adjust… yes… posted… talk to you soon….”

Sherlock tried to force his brain online to piece these clues together, but he was failing miserably. More alarming still, he couldn’t find it in himself to really care. It just felt so good, to not be doing or thinking anything. To just… be.

Something cold touched Sherlock’s cheek. He flinched at the contact.

“Christ Sherlock, your fever’s getting worse.”

“Hand…. Cold…”

“My hand is at room temperature. Damn it, I hope this isn’t turning into bronchitis. Your smoking and doing hazardous experiments without a fume hood could be contributing factors, you know.”

Sherlock cracked an eye open to glare at his partner. “Who’re you talking to? On the phone?”

A flicker of something crossed John’s face, but it was quickly subdued. “Mycroft.”

“What? Why?”

“Just touching base and confirming some things. I thought he told you.”

“Ah. About planning our parents’ anniversary party. Which you never told me about. Why not?”

John shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d care. Thought you’d just delete it if I did tell you.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I see.” He tried to put as much suspicion in his glare as he could, but the effect was rather ruined when three more sneezes forced their way out of him. Sherlock grimaced as he reached for the tissues at his side and wiped his nose.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He hated appearing vulnerable in this way, even in front of John. Physical intimacy was one thing; transport failure was quite another. It was embarrassing.

John’s expression softened. “We need to keep you hydrated, that’s the most important thing. I’ll go to the shops and pick up some juice. Oh, and some more paracetamol; we’re almost out.”

“Didn’t you have work today?”

“I did, but I called in a personal day.”

Sherlock frowned. “Will you have to make that up?”

“No,” John replied. “It’ll just count as using one of my accrued days off. I have a few on reserve.”

“You don’t need to babysit me.”

“Of course not, you git. This is what partners do for each other. You’d do the same for me, I’m sure.”

Sherlock quirked a smile. “Of course I would.”

“Right. I’m sure by now I’ve been exposed to whatever it is you might have, but I’m going to play it safe and not kiss you. I’m popping on out to Tesco, I’ll be back in a jiff. Mrs Hudson is just a floor away if you need anything before I get back.”

Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal and closed his eyes. He could feel the fatigue pulling him under again. “I’m sure I can be left alone for 20 minutes.”

Sherlock could hear the affection in John’s voice. “I’m sure. See you in a few.” John ruffled his hair (one of Sherlock’s favourite sensations), then stepped away to prepare for heading out.

After John left, Sherlock would have easily dozed off, if he hadn’t laid his hand on the armrest and come in contact with John’s phone. His eyes flew open. Curious, he opened up the call log (not password locked - really, John?). The latest call had indeed been made to Mycroft’s phone, lasting five minutes. With a twinge of guilt, he checked calls going back two weeks, and also texts. He found nothing suspicious or incriminating. No further contact with Mycroft during that time period. Of course, John could have deleted any evidence, but he was just as likely to forget that was even an option.

Sherlock decided to take everything at face value for now. What was that hateful expression? ‘ _It is what it is’?_ Whatever ‘it’ was, Sherlock trusted that it would be in his best interest. This was _John,_ after all.

 

He tugged the afghan tighter around his body, and drifted off to sleep.

  
  



	25. Missing Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't even try to excuse the huge delay in updating. One thing I can promise is that the story will be told, in its entirety!
> 
> This chapter is split into two POVs: Sherlock's and Mycroft's. I hope you enjoy.

Sherlock scowled at his phone. This was the third text he had sent, and Mycroft still hadn’t responded. He wasn’t yet desperate enough to make an actual phone call, however, so he let it go. 

Sherlock no longer had a fever, but he was still coughing and sneezing, and his throat still hurt. He was forcing himself to stay indoors and not become too agitated, not wanting to jeopardise being able to be out and about by Friday at the latest. Fortunately he could check up on and arrange most things from his computer or phone, but he’d rather be able to do some things in person. He didn’t like relying on other people unless he absolutely had to. And right now, he absolutely had to.

John was working a double shift at the clinic today because two of the other doctors were down with the same thing Sherlock had, so he wouldn’t be home until eight. Sherlock was suddenly hit with an intense feeling of longing. At that exact minute, his phone lit up with John’s number.

“John.”

“Hello, love. I’m on my lunch break now and thought I’d call to see how you are.”

“Bored.”

John laughed. “Yeah, I figured as much. I sort of am too. It’s not nearly as busy as they thought it’d be today. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I can’t believe you won’t be home for another eight hours.” At least Sherlock had those emails in his ‘Promising’ folder still to go through. Maybe something would catch his interest.

“Poor you, being homebound kinda sucks, doesn’t it? Well, you did say no active cases for - what is it now, five more days? Time to recharge a bit.”

“Mmmm.”

“Has your appetite improved at all?”

“A bit. I had eggs and toast this morning.”

“Well done, you.” John’s voice resonated with warmth and good humour. Sherlock’s chest swelled. 

 

_ I love you. Marry me. _

 

For a split second he thought he had said it out loud, and panic flooded him. Until - 

“Sherlock? You still there?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Still here. Maybe you could bring some takeaway home for dinner? I might be able to eat more by then.”

“Will do. God, I wish I were there with you right now. We had a couple of cancellations for this afternoon, but someone has to be here just in case. I’ll be home as soon after eight as I can manage, okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. In the meantime, you need to rest up, all right? And drink lots of fluids, there’s a lot to choose from in the fridge.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Make sure you do, Detective.” 

Sherlock smiled. “See you then.”

“Bye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock ended the call. For some unfathomable reason, he felt ten times lighter than before. Sentiment was a funny thing.

 

Five days and counting.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft hadn’t been home in three days. Two unexpected international crises had reared their heads during that time, preventing sleep and nutritious meals of any kind. He was lucky that the Diogenes Club was only a few streets away from his office and that he was allowed to keep extra changes of clothing there for such a contingency. Fortunately he had been able to slip away from work long enough to take two quick showers during that time and to freshen up between meetings. 

Everything pertaining to his brother’s looming proposal was settled and back on schedule, so at least he didn’t have to worry about that. Well, barring some unnecessary texts that Sherlock had sent earlier today that was more about seeking reassurance than anything else. Sherlock’s illness had threatened to throw everything off kilter, but after two days of being homebound and seen to by his doctor, he was well on his way to a full recovery by the time The Big Day rolled around. The fact that Sherlock had proclaimed cases involving legwork to be verboten until afterwards only served to guarantee that he got the rest that he needed.  

Mycroft glanced at the clock; ten minutes to midnight. Four days. Only four more days until his brother and John Watson were officially engaged. Of course then there would be a wedding, but Mycroft wouldn’t be involved with any of that. That privilege would belong to Inspector Lestrade and Ms Hooper.

He stared at the pile of paperwork in front of him - paperwork that needed to be completed before he could go home. He allowed himself to lean back in his chair for a moment and closed his eyes. The showers at the Diogenes Club were more than adequate, but he craved a good long soak in his deep, copper clawfoot bathtub. Maybe he would indulge in some bath crystals - or better yet, some bubble bath. Afterwards, he would don black silk pyjamas and then slip under his 1000 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. He wouldn’t even set an alarm, he would just allow his body to wake when it would -

 

The trilling of his phone brought him back, his body jerking upright in response. He blinked his eyes, bringing them back into focus as he looked at the screen. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Hello, John. No, you didn’t wake me. Yes, the ring is still secure. Yes, I’m sure he doesn’t suspect a thing. Or, to be more truthful, he doesn’t suspect  _ this  _ particular scenario. Not to worry. I understand how hard it is for ordinary people to keep a secret from Sherlock Holmes. Now don’t be like that, practically everyone is. I promise you, he will be surprised. Yes. Until then.”

Mycroft ended the call with a sigh. He scrubbed a hand over his face, willing himself back to alertness. He missed his home, and all of the luxuries that came with it. Well, the sooner he finished this paperwork, the sooner he could go home and wallow in hedonism, at least for a little while. There might even be cake.

 

He reached for the top page and a pen, and got to work.

 

 


End file.
